by David Waine
The name of the Draal monarch sent a small shudder round the room.
“Make no mistake, he sits on his throne in Zinal and plots our overthrow every day. That is why you are here.” Treasor’s face was grave. “The Draal army is a fearsome foe. They outnumber our forces vastly. Our troops are superior, and the losses they inflict upon an enemy will be greater than those they sustain, but Draal has sheer weight of numbers and that is all they need.” The class listened intently. “We cannot match them on the open field. That does not mean, however, that we cannot fight them or,” leaning forward significantly, “defeat them. Their strategy is governed by the crushing blow, designed to smash resistance at a stroke. How can we exploit this characteristic?”
Callin looked round. Simian Treponic cautiously raised his hand.
“Master Treponic?”
Simian rose respectfully. “I think it would be wisest to draw the enemy into a position where he can only commit his forces a few at a time.”
“Excellent!” exulted Master Treasor, delighted. “Note this down. The sole direct route lies through the Pass of the Cross. The defile is narrow and will only admit the passage of troops slowly. It is guarded by the Border Force and relatively secure. Is there another way that they can threaten us?”
Keriak raised his hand.
“Master Rulik?”
“What is to stop them shipping an army in an armada, and invading us through one of our lesser neighbours?”
Treasor nodded. “Two reasons. They would need many ships to transport their army and we would be aware of it long before it was ready to set sail. Sulinan knows that we would regard any large fleet leaving their ports as an act of war, and would order our fleet into action immediately.”
Callin’s hand now rose. “Would our navy be strong enough to stop such an armada?” he asked.
“A huge invasion fleet would be much larger than our entire navy, but would consist disproportionately of troop transports. In addition to our warships, we have a great number of small craft, which make capital fire ships. Imagine what they would do to a large fleet sailing in close formation,” replied Treasor.
Callin could almost hear Keriak thinking aloud to his left.
“Sir,” the Graan-Draal’s hand rose.
“Master Rulik?”
“So we are to understand that, between them, the mountains with the Border Force, and Graan with its navy, keep the Kingdom secure?”
“Not entirely,” Treasor’s face was grave. The invading fleet would suffer crippling damage but it might still get through. Then the Treaty of Kurial comes into force.” Kurial was the capital of a neighbouring small state, Dragotar. “Although capable of little in themselves, our ally’s efforts should slow the Draal advance sufficiently for us, as the larger member, to mobilise our forces in time to meet the challenge head on. Whatever happens, the might of Sulinan’s army would be significantly reduced by the time it faced ours.”
In spite of the silence that greeted his statement, Treasor was gratified that the faces before him seemed to denote general approval. So they should. It was a good strategy. He knew, however, that there was a gaping hole in the plan and wondered who would be the first to spot it.
“Master Treponic?”
“If the Draal army is so enormous, sir, what is to stop them from dividing their forces and attacking us on both flanks at once?”
Treasor nodded grimly. The boy had seen the fatal flaw. According to Gallen, he was a useless namby-pamby, who lost every fight. His own experience, however, and that of Ferian, had shown Treponic to possess an unusually fine brain with a keen grasp of military strategy.
“Very good, Master Treponic,” he uttered gravely. “You have seen our fatal flaw: the pincer movement.”
“Is there no reserve plan?” asked Callin incredulously.
“There is. We seek powerful allies and are ready to cement their friendship with Princess Avalind’s virtue. To date, however, no suitable prince has presented himself. The search continues.”
*
As Callin regained his quarters, Sigimond Vland was fawning at the door.
“Hello, Vland. Is it ready yet?”
“Yes, sir. The farrier has just finished fitting the frame. Would you care to inspect it?
Callin strode past the man into his room and examined the new window minutely. Both men had performed their tasks well. Vland’s glass was smooth and clear, while the farrier’s frame was slender, yet strong, swung open easily on its hinges and secured firmly with a latch. This simple window suited his purposes ideally.
“Excellent,” he announced, “what do I owe you?”
The man handed over a sheet of parchment with the full bill itemised for his scrutiny.
“This pays both you and the farrier?” asked Callin.
“Yes, sir, we split the bill accordingly.”
Windows, it seemed, did not come cheap. He handed the money over and Vland left, fawning as ever.
*
Callin sat with Simian Treponic and Keriak Rulik in the refectory the following evening. They had formed an unlikely association over the previous weeks, all three being transfers from different academies. Having forged the bonds of friendship, they were keen to cement them
“You know of my record in the academy?” asked Callin.
The other two set their tankards down and leaned forward, listening. “Who doesn’t?” replied Keriak flatly.
“I have an offer to make,” went on Callin, “but there is something that I need to explain first, something that is strictly between the three of us.” Their curiosity was kindled. “As you know, I have killed two men in self defence.” Both knew. “Well,” Callin cleared his throat nervously, “what you do not know — and neither does anybody else — is that they should both have killed me.”
“What?” Simian looked incredulous.
“Honestly,” Callin nodded, “both had me at their mercy, yet neither could finish me.”
“What prevented them?” asked Keriak.
Callin could not possibly tell them the truthful answer, so he merely shrugged. “Can you explain my success at the academy, where I am neither the biggest,” gesturing to Keriak, “nor,” to Simian, “the cleverest?”
Both of his guests were silent for a long moment. When Keriak spoke, Simian was still deep in thought. “How do you explain it?”
“I don’t,” replied Callin.
Simian eyed him over his tankard. “Do you suspect that you were saved from death for a reason?”
Callin looked at him sharply, but said nothing.
Now Keriak spoke up. “Master Treponic,” he said formally, “I must respect your wisdom.” Turning, then to Callin, he asked, “How does this concern us?”
“If what Master Treponic says is true, and I suspect that it is,” said Callin. “It seems that I may have been selected for some great task — what, I do not yet know — but I would ask if you are willing to share in it with me.”
Keriak’s tankard had been on its way back to his lips. “You have a quest?”
Callin shrugged. “Not yet, but soon, I think. We could join forces and pit our combined strength in King Rhomic’s service. When my calling is made clear, I will have need of friends.” As he leaned forward and spoke softly, both noticed the ingenuousness in his eyes. “There is something coming, I know it in my heart. Greatness will be the reward of whoever is chosen to undertake it. You could share in that as my friends. Is it agreed?”
He stretched forth his hand. Simian took it at once. Keriak noted his prompt acceptance. It was that which finally decided him.
*
The leaves were falling like coloured snow as they rode out onto the grassy countryside that led to Brond Forest. The warm autumn that they had all enjoyed was now giving way to winter. Already they could feel the chill winds sweeping down from the mountains and pulled their cloaks closer around their shoulders.
“The weather is turning, Master Vorst,” she smiled.
&n
bsp; He nodded. “Are you sure you still wish to go riding?”
She laughed, chiding gently. “Don’t tell me that you are wary of the cold, sir. Have you never ridden in snow before?”
“I’ve slept in it! I come from Nassinor, remember?”
“Then catch me if you can!” she cried joyously, spurring her horse towards the forest.
“Here we go again,” he muttered fondly, noting wistfully that her equestrian skills had still not improved.
A gentle prod with his spurs was enough to set his mount into a loping canter after her. He reined in. They were both now under the eaves of the forest. Avalind’s horse stood stock-still several paces in front of him. By the set of her shoulders, he could see that she was shivering.
He moved quickly alongside. “My Lady, are you well?”
She nodded, but it was obvious to him that she wasn’t. Her face was bleak in the chill air. “It was here,” she said with a shudder.
Realisation dawned. Lork’s carrion had long since been cleared away and no trace remained of his destruction. Now the grass was dying back, leaves were falling, sprinkling the mossy ground with russet patches, but it was still the same spot. The place retained a gloomy aura of death that no change in season could remove.
“We should move on,” he said quietly, taking her reins and nudging both horses into motion. She followed meekly.
They had travelled on scarcely three minutes, however, when Callin reined in again.
“What…?” began Avalind. He motioned her to silence.
They were on the edge of a clearing. Half hidden in the shadow of the trees on the opposite side stood a horse and rider. Both man and steed were black. He was masked and carried an indistinct bundle across his saddle.
Motioning the princess to remain where she was, Callin rode forward a pace or two into the sunlight.
“My name is Callin Vorst, vassal to King Rhomic,” he cried. “You are at large in the Royal Forest of Brond. Please identify yourself.”
The man made no move forward but his voice was steady. “I know who you are and I know whom you protect.”
Avalind now urged her horse forward alongside Callin’s. His cautionary hand staid her.
“Do I know you, sir?” she asked. It seemed to her that the man’s voice was unnaturally deep.
“It is better that you do not know me, Your Highness,” he replied evasively. “I bring you a gift.”
With that he loosed the moaning bundle across his saddle so that it fell with a bump and a high-pitched cry to the ground. Then he turned and made off into the forest.
The bundle wriggled and simpered, struggling against its enveloping blanket. Callin dismounted, drawing his knife, and advanced cautiously on the squirming heap. Hearing his approach, a woman’s voice piped out imperiously, “Well, hurry up then! Do I have to wait all day?”
Callin knelt and cut the bonds that held the blanket. The folds fell away to reveal a fat, red-faced young woman in extreme discomfort. Her clothing was crumpled, stained and torn. Her hair — her hair did not bear mentioning.
“And about ti…” she began. Then she saw who was freeing her. The low sun, behind his head formed a halo in his hair and it was a moment before she could distinguish his features. This was no menial sent to do a distasteful job. This was a nobleman.
“Forgive me, madam,” he said courteously, cutting the remaining bonds. “My name is Callin Vorst. Are you hurt?”
The bundle struggled to its feet and shook most of the creases out of its dress. ‘Vorst! The famous Callin — brigand slayer — he would make a fine match, my girl, if you play your cards right.’ Attempting futilely to organise her tresses into something presentable, she replied with a greater measure of civility than she had managed hitherto, “Master Vorst! What a surprise. I am Lissian Dumarrick, daughter to Baron Loda. You may have heard of me.”
Callin inclined his head. “The princess mentioned you to me recently,” he said, turning to reveal his companion.
“The princess!” Lissian looked horror-struck. To appear dishevelled when rescued by a handsome beau was one thing. Having won his sympathy by her wretched condition, she could bathe and change at the castle, then dazzle him with her true appearance afterwards. To appear thus before another young woman, though — especially that young woman — was a degradation no Dumarrick should ever have to endure. So, she was back from Nassinor, was she? Well, no little slut of a Vandamm was going to lord it over her.
“Why, Lissian,” the voice was gentle, concerned, “I had no idea you were coming so soon. Are you hurt?”
“Your Highness.” Lissian bobbed a peremptory curtsey. “Kidnapped, savaged, beaten, bound up, dropped — but otherwise intact,” with a covert glance at Callin.
Avalind dismounted, horrified. “Oh, Lissian, you have been cruelly misused. Here, take my horse. Would you help her up, please Callin?”
CHAPTER TEN
Lissian had come to complete her education at the ladies’ seminary in Brond. Despite being much the same age as Avalind, who had completed her schooling with record marks, she still had several months to go, having been an uncooperative, albeit able, pupil in Yelkin. Given the mediocre state of communications within the Kingdom, she could have arrived at any time within the next week. Instead of descending in pomp and glory, however, to enter the city in such a bedraggled condition, riding the princess’s own horse, led by Master Vorst, while Avalind rode his, was sensational.
Rhomic took immediate action. Search parties scoured the woods for the mysterious man in black. All returned by sunset, empty-handed. Letters were hurriedly scribed to her father, confirming her safe arrival and detailing her harrowing experience. They mentioned the stranger in black and enquired whether anyone in Yelkin knew of such a man. Baron Loda’s reply — full of paternal concern for his daughter — indicated that no one did.
Avalind took it upon herself to give Lissian the best possible reception. She ordered her rooms to be properly aired, fires lit, bowls of flowers set and seamstresses summoned. Meanwhile she gave her guest the freedom of her own quarters, most significantly fitted with the largest bathtub in Brond. While Lissian luxuriated in warm water, Avalind sent out to gather such clothing as could be found at short notice. Mistress Lissian’s own garments, other than what she wore, had disappeared in the brigand raid.
When she finally emerged, pink and steamy, a bevy of serving maids instantly wrapped her in soft towels, seamstresses measured her every possible dimension and hurried off to run her up some acceptable garments at once.
Avalind noticed the piggy eyes straying in the direction of the table ready laid for lunch. The princess traditionally ate her lunch alone in her own room. Today, however, the meal was at least three times its normal size.
“Please help yourself, Lissian. You must be starving. I dined while you were bathing,” she lied.
Replacing the towels with a soft robe, Lissian set to. She had eaten nothing since the previous evening, so her natural hunger was something to be marvelled at. The princess certainly marvelled.
Soon Avalind thought it politic to open a window in spite of the chill air without. Lissian was too busy to notice. Shortly after, dresses began to arrive from all parts of the castle, donated by ladies of the court. Most were too small but she did manage to squeeze into an old dress that had belonged to the princess’s mother, Queen Usalla, when heavily pregnant with Soth.
“That will have to do for now,” she told her guest. “My seamstresses tell me that they should be able to have a couple of simple but elegant gowns run up for you by this evening. The more complicated stuff will take longer, of course, but we should be able to have you kitted out properly within a few days. Will that be all right?”
Lissian wiped her greasy mouth with her fingers. She was not enamoured at the thought of ‘simple’ gowns, but supposed there was nothing better that could be done at the moment.
After supper, Callin presented himself to pay his compliments. He could not have
made a worse mistake. She greeted him like a long-lost saviour, resplendent in her ‘simple but elegant’ lemon yellow gown, a distorted replica of the one he remembered Avalind wearing when she defended the brigand, Cabral. On the princess the design had looked sublime. On Lissian — it covered her.
She dragged him into the room, brooking no refusal, and entreated ‘her hero’ to help her finish this modest little supper (an entire goose with trimmings), which was far too big for her to manage by herself.
“Please, please don’t stand on ceremony, Master Vorst,” she begged him, holding out the thickest thigh of fowl he had ever seen and informing him that he must eat it all if it was to do him any good.
Callin protested that he had just finished his supper in the refectory, and was about to add, ‘as have you,’ when he thought better of it.
By the time he extricated himself from her room, he was so stuffed that he doubted he would ever eat again. She was still at it when he staggered out.
Half sliding, half rolling, he slumped along the few yards of corridor to his own room, where Mussa was waiting with his bath. For once, he could not face the water.
“No, I’ll burst,” he muttered. “Bed.”
Needing no further prompting, she stepped out of her dress and into his bed. She snuggled into his side, nuzzling his bristly chin with the tip of her nose and groping with her free hand further down. To her surprise, she felt no response at all. Seconds later, a shuddering snore told her why.
