by David Waine
Her glare was pure, unsullied ice, but it had no effect on him. Summarily dismissed, she held his gaze for a moment, then bobbed a perfunctory further curtsey, turned on her heel and left without a word. As the door closed, there was an audible sigh of relief from those around the table.
“Did you really mean that, sire, about admitting her to the academy?” asked Ferian.
“Why not?” shrugged the king. A sudden commotion from outside attracted his attention. “What is that? They can’t be here already.”
Gallen rose and went to the window. “It’s Soth,” he announced, “he got through.”
The king bounded to the window to behold his mud-bespattered son dismounting, his equally dishevelled retinue doing the same behind him. Soth looked up to see his father beaming down on him. He motioned that he would come straight up.
Rhomic was back in his chair when the door burst open and the filthy prince strode in with his two captains. Soth rested his hands wearily on the far end of the table from his father and hung his head. His face was bleak.
“You have seen the enemy?” asked his father.
“We have seen them.” The reply was a monotone.
“Their number?”
“Huge. Unless you have managed to whistle up reinforcements out of thin air, we will be outnumbered by at least ten to one. They have managed to forge access somewhere between here and Yelkin. They were at Glast when we spied them.”
“We surmised that,” confirmed the king, “or, more precisely, Sir Simian did. He and Vlaan held them at the pass and threw them back. At least we have one victory, although it cost us General Vlaan.”
Soth grimaced at the bitter tidings. “Any news of Graan or at sea?”
Rhomic shook his head. “None, but with a Draal army between them and us, that is hardly surprising. Dragotar?”
“At peace when I left it.”
He moved to the window and stood, staring bleakly through the glass, his back to them all.
“They will be here within a day,” he announced. It was obvious to everyone present that his back was stiff with repressed emotion.
“There is more,” said Rhomic gently, laying his hand on Soth’s shoulder. “What other news do you carry, my son?” he asked, a feeling of deepest dread rising within his soul.
Soth turned slowly to face his father. There were tears on his haggard face, cleaning streaks through the caked mud on his cheeks. “Such news as I should be struck dead for divulging,” he croaked.
Rhomic led him gently to a chair and sat him down, motioning a guard to bring refreshment. The others gathered round in fearful silence.
“Soon after we saw the enemy,” his voice faltered, “we came across a marauding party attacking a coach. We drove them off but, by the time we got there, the coach was well ablaze. It was gutted before we could put it out. Inside we found several bodies, all burned beyond recognition. We found this.”
He reached into his pouch and deposited the Seal of the Vandamms into his father’s hand.
Rhomic sat back slowly, absolute horror on his face. He stared at the ring as if unable to conceive its full import. Soth reached out and held his father’s shaking shoulder gently as the suddenly aged King’s face fell to the table and an agonised sob shuddered on the air.
Alarm choking his voice, Callin ventured, “Your Highness?”
Soth noticed he was there for the first time. Struggling to master his own grief, if only for a moment, he reached once more into his pouch. “Sir Callin — Count Vorst. I am truly sorry.” He passed Dorcan’s ring over.
Callin took the ring and the title in silence, cursing the Hag in his heart to the far end of all eternity. He was to blame. There was no stopping it now.
Raising his face from the table, eyes glistening with tears, his voice a bare choked murmur, Rhomic spoke. “You brought the bodies?”
Soth nodded. “They are in our wagon, covered and sealed. Apart from my escort and those in this room, no one knows. My men have been sworn to silence.”
“Can you tell…?”
Soth shook his head. “The women are smaller, of course. There was an infant. Count Dorcan is identifiable by his size, but I cannot tell which one is…”
He hung his head, his own sobs shuddering his body. Suddenly both men were on their feet, wrapped in each other’s embrace, weeping openly. Their jewel was gone.
The moment hung, dragged out in grief. Callin felt firm hands grasp his shoulder, but knew not whose they were. His eyes stared straight ahead of him, able to see only the charred treasure in his hand; a replica of his own ring, except that this one also bore the letter ‘M’ over the crest. ‘M’ for ‘Magister’, the master ring, the ring that only the holder of the title could wear. If he could have reduced it to ashes with his eyes, he would have.
*
The reddening in the evening sky was perilously close now. Rhomic had called a peremptory halt to the council meeting while he and Soth came to terms with their loss. There was nothing to be said. Plans were already laid, stores of weapons and food supplied, troops stationed. All they could do now was wait for the inevitable.
Callin leaned on his embrasure. He had returned there immediately on dismissal. This very spot was where he would strike his first blow in defence of the Kingdom. Avalind and Dorcan were both dead: the two people left in the world that he could honestly say he loved. He was as responsible for their deaths, and his father’s, as he had been for Simack’s by bargaining with that hellcat. What of Mussa and their son, destroyed in his unwanted leap for power? Homicide, fratricide and parricide, he was all three, damned. He could no more alter the unfurling chain of events now than he could have thrown down the walls of Castle Brond with his bare hands.
“Lost in your thoughts, Count?”
An even more than usually solemn Soth stood at his shoulder. He had washed the travel stains away and changed into fresh clothing — green, not black, as Avalind’s fate was to remain a secret — but the pallor of his face, coupled with the unnatural brightness of his eyes, gave away much that he could not conceal.
Callin stood to attention. “Your Highness.”
Soth made no gesture, but stood staring fixedly at the sky. “Normally I would bid you be at your ease,” he said with an enforced pleasantness, “but I cannot foresee a day when either of us will be at our ease again, can you?”
“I was thinking of Dorcan,” confessed Callin.
“And I of Avalind,” returned the prince. “You have lost your brother, and I my sister. What can I say that you do not already know?”
“Over these last couple of years,” replied Callin, “I have come to look upon her almost as a sister, especially with her conduct at Nassinor. We — I mean I — have so much to thank her for.”
Soth nodded, remembering. “That was Avalind. If she had one overriding talent, it was her ability to make all who met her love her.”
Callin smiled grimly.
“Forgive me, Count Vorst,” ventured Soth. “Here am I expounding my grief when you have your own to deal with. Count Dorcan was a fine man. The Kingdom has few to compare with him.”
“My one remaining hope is that I can avenge his death,” said Callin grimly.
Soth took his arm compassionately. “As mine is to avenge hers.” He turned to face his younger associate with absolute determination on his face. “Count Vorst — Callin. Although no man can replace what we have lost, let us strive together, as brothers in our hearts, to carry our vengeance to the enemy’s soul. Whatever happens, Kubelik must not reign in the Kingdom. We must destroy him, even if we fall in the attempt.”
Callin stared soberly at the proffered hand and gripped it firmly.
*
They arrived the following morning. A dull booming resounded from the neighbouring hillsides, distorted echoes of many, many feet, tramping to the steady beat of thousands of drums for a full half hour before the vanguard appeared. When it did, it struck a chill into the hearts of many who watched in s
ilence from the walls of Castle Brond. The personal standards of Kubelik and Trulik flanked the Draal national banner, but they were supported by row upon row of tall poles, and atop each pole sat a severed head, hair, matted with dried blood, flapping raggedly in the breeze, flesh displaying the early crinkling of decay. The pole bearers advanced with the standard bearers and stuck their grisly burdens into the soft, wet earth before the perimeter ditch, where they stood, swaying, as if to say, ‘See, Rhomic, even your own people march with us.’
The object of their derision watched silently from the walls, his face fixed. Some of the heads were female and some others were children.
“Sulinan’s personal banner is missing,” observed Treasor.
“How typical of him,” responded Rhomic grimly. “He has sent in Kubelik to lord it over us and Trulik to do his thinking for him. Sulinan will only arrive when we are crushed.”
Turning from the sight, he addressed the assembled troops.
“This is the degenerate who would grind us under his heel!” he shouted. “This is the tyrant who would strip us and whip us to eternal slavery! This is the monster who rapes and murders for pleasure! This is Kubelik Furak! Tell me!” His arms flew into the air in a gesture of defiance. “Tell me! Will we allow this beast of a man to crush our freedom?”
Thousands of weapons were raised into the air in a unanimous declaration and the castle rang with the single word, “No!”
“You know your places!” continued the king, “Put your trust in God and keep your hearts true, and we will yet carry this day!”
As time went on, however, it seemed less and less likely, to those who watched, that they would have even the slightest chance of carrying the day. Kubelik and Trulik made no attempt to launch an attack, but merely assembled their troops out of bowshot. Instead they made a proud show of just how huge their numbers were. All day they came, swelling the ranks deeper and deeper, until their lines ran from horizon to horizon and stretched back as far as the eye could see.
By noon their heavy machinery was set up. All who watched marvelled at how quickly these fearsome devices could be constructed from kits that appeared to be little more than bundles of logs. As the afternoon progressed, a forest of tents sprang up behind their lines and, as evening fell, the glow of innumerable campfires turned the lowering clouds dullest russet.
Callin heard Gallen muttering to himself a little to his left. “If they are going to keep them standing there all night, they are all going to be too stiff to fight when the time comes.”
Callin smiled to himself and thought, ‘So are we.’
As the thought struck him, a ripple and murmur among his fellow watchers alerted him that action was afoot among the enemy. A white flag had been raised and a party was issuing from the massed ranks beyond the poles. A makeshift bridge was thrown down and the party crossed the ditch without pausing.
“At last,” said the king. “Soth, Generals Gallen, Treasor and Count Vorst, let us deliver our response.”
Escorted by a small retinue of cavalry, they made their way towards the edge of the town, where the Draal emissaries waited. Callin knew that every building was stocked with troops, yet he saw none. An evacuated city might well prove to be as effective a defence as a wall in breaking up many an assault before the enemy had a chance to hurl themselves on the castle proper.
Rhomic and party reached the end of the street and wheeled to meet the Draal party, which stood waiting a few paces further off, headed by both Kubelik and Trulik. Callin beheld the blood-soaked brute for the first time. They were much of an age but Kubelik looked years older, debauchery and carnage already taking their toll. He was powerful, though, with hulking shoulders and massive hands, his long, black hair sleeked to the sides of his head, mirroring his drooping moustache, his eyes cold, his lips curled in a cruel grimace.
Rhomic reined in face to face with the general and stared him straight in the eye. “Where is Sulinan?” he asked gruffly.
“The Light of Heaven is in Zinal, where he should be, governing the holy land of Draal,” replied Trulik smoothly.
“I deal with kings,” replied Rhomic abruptly and turned as if to go.
“Sir,” returned the general, “I am merely his intermediary, charged with arranging this parley.”
Rhomic eyed the man coldly. “Do you command this rabble?” he asked.
Trulik stiffened slightly. “I am General Trulik, tactical commander of these units of the Imperial Draal Army. Overall command lies in the capable hands of His Royal Highness, Prince Kubelik,” indicating the prince, who lounged alongside on his horse.
“You would treat with me, Rhomic Vandamm?” he drawled.
“I treat with no man,” replied the king sharply, “The flag of truce was yours. Since your father is not man enough to face me, I will have to deal with his spawn.”
Kubelik stiffened in his saddle. “Be careful of how you speak, Vandamm. The cornered cat snarls, but it remains cornered.”
Rhomic smiled benevolently, betraying none of his inner despair. “Be not too certain that you have us cornered, Furak. What do you want?”
“You have until the sun sets in which to surrender the city and give up your throne,” replied Kubelik, leaning forward in his saddle. “Your self-styled ‘Kingdom’ to receive back its original, and correct, name of Sutherland and to return to its proper status as a province of Draal. You and your son, Soth, to accompany the Draal High Command to Zinal, and thence into exile. Such of your nobles who will swear allegiance to The Light of Heaven may remain in their fiefdoms. Any who do not will be banished. Your people to be left alone to till their land in peace.”
Rhomic scanned the line of skulls on poles. “As you left them alone?” he asked.
“Casualties of war,” replied Kubelik.
“We do not invade,” said Rhomic steadily. “We do not rape and pillage. We do not murder women and children, nor do we burn villages and enslave those who live in them. The Kingdom is free and every citizen will fight to defend it.”
Kubelik’s eyes raked the sky in a gesture of ennui. “I grow tired of this,” he announced. “Had it been left up to me, I would have overrun your pathetic little town and reduced it to ashes with a word. However The Light of Heaven, who is always merciful, has insisted that I treat you with some respect and offer you the choice. I have made that offer. What is your response?”
Rhomic's answer was delivered in a flat monotone, his eyes flinty. “You may tell Sulinan that we reject his terms utterly. If he wants to occupy so much as a handful of Kingdom territory, he will have to fight for it to the very limit of his power. As for you, Kubelik Furak, you may leave and take your rabble with you. Do so peacefully, and our troops will escort you to the border.”
Kubelik laughed harshly. “Brave words from a man with an army at his gates.”
Rhomic now leaned forward in his saddle and spoke softly to the swaggering prince.
“Your over confidence is your undoing, Kubelik. Do you not realise that you have been lured into a trap?”
For the first time, he could see doubt registering in Kubelik’s eyes. “You are attacked on four fronts…” the prince began.
“Are we?” replied Rhomic. “I see only one. When you leave, I suggest you go by the way that you came. The pass is clogged with the bodies of your troops, General Siriak among them. They did not even breech the fence. Have you had word from Graan or from Dragotar? We have.”
Callin knew that the last statement was a lie, or at least a distortion, the only word they had received from either place being Soth’s confirmation that Dragotar was at peace when he left it. He knew it was a ploy designed to inflame Kubelik into doing something rash, but his face remained impassive. Rhomic’s words had some effect, however. Kubelik’s eyes were even colder.
“Did they tell you how Avalind died?” he asked in a voice loud enough for all to hear. “It was not our doing. She and her companions all slew themselves and the last one alive set fire to the coac
h.” He raised his voice even louder. “Did you know that, people of Brond? There lies the courage in your precious Vandamms! Ask your king if I speak truly!”
Callin felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. Kubelik’s words had struck home. There was a disturbed murmuring from the battlements. Rhomic sat his horse like a gigantic block of granite. His eyes and his voice had lost any semblance of warmth.
“Go back whence you came, Kubelik Furak or face the consequences of your unholy acts. You will never reign in the Kingdom. Your squalid, bloody and mercifully short life has almost run its course.”
Without another word, he wheeled about and rode back into the city.
Callin hurried up to his embrasure, heart pounding, and ready to do his bit to repel the first assault on the walls. When he got there, however, he found his fellow guards still alert, but their weapons sheathed, and an air of worried, watchful relaxation about them.
“Aren’t they coming?” he gasped.
His neighbouring guard shook his head. “Not yet. It looks like they’re packing up for the night.”
Unable to believe his ears, Callin looked out over the battlements. True enough, instead of surging forward in an unstoppable mass, they gave every indication of having been stood down, breaking ranks, stacking weapons and retiring to their tents.
Callin could not believe his eyes. After an entire day of anticipating his first real battle, he felt almost cheated that it was not be after all. “I thought we were going to fight,” he cried.
“We are!” General Treasor was at his side. “It is a subterfuge. See who is packing up. They have been standing to attention for hours and will be as stiff as boards. Trulik, for it is he, not Kubelik, who determines their strategy, never intended to use those troops in the first assault. They have been told to stand down and rest for the night. Meanwhile our forces have been on high alert all day and are now tired. His assault troops will be kept out of sight, probably in the tents, until after dark when they will hit us, unannounced, with fresh, rested forces.”
