A Blackbird In Silver (Book 1)

by Freda Warrington

  Young trees gave way to a sea of bracken that spilled onto a slope of sparse grass and shale. At the bottom of the slope stood the Boundary Wall. It looked huge. They could not let the horses career straight towards it and so they veered left, dodging the dead warriors who seemed slow to sense their direction. Circling uphill again, they saw Benra hurling himself headlong into the bracken to avoid a sword blow. Still holding Skord as if the boy weighed nothing, the neman resurfaced swinging his axe, hacking the Gorethrian’s legs until it toppled. Benra leapt up and ran on.

  ‘Come on! You’ll have to jump the wall – Look out!’

  Medrian’s palfrey squealed and leapt forward as the dead neman’s sword swung. The blade only tangled in Taery’s tail, pulling out a few strands. Medrian made Taery prop sideways, then turned his head and swung him downhill at a canter. Shaell and Vixata were just ahead of her, with Benra striding alongside them, Skord flopping like a rag doll on his shoulder.

  The stony scree sloped down almost to the base of the wall, separated from it by a wide ditch. The wall itself was built of ancient, crumbling stone, covered in silvery lichen and moss. It was close on six feet high and about ten wide, and what lay on the landing side – perhaps a thorn-choked drop, or heap of tumbled rocks – they would not know until it was too late.

  They collected their horses until the beasts were cantering almost on the spot, mouths foaming. The two remaining corpse-warriors – Gorethrian and neman – set upon Ashurek but, with Vixata’s skill, he kept them at bay. She kicked, struck and lunged at the assailants, dodging sword blows like a feather.

  They saw Benra negotiate the wall – with Skord now tucked under an upper arm – as easily as a cat. His long, well-muscled legs flexed as he leapt the ditch. He found a hand-hold on the wall, and in one clean movement he sprang up and hauled himself onto the top.

  ‘It’s flat up here. You can bank it,’ Benra called, making to climb down the far side. The third warrior was on its feet again and lumbering downhill towards them. With a parting kick, Vixata launched herself at the wall. It seemed to grow higher and higher as she approached, and Ashurek knew that while her momentum carried her downwards, she would struggle to gain height in the jump.

  As they reached the ditch Vixata took off, and with a rush of air she made a vast leap and landed on top of the wall; gathered herself; leapt off the other side and landed on good ground, well out over a second, smaller ditch.

  ‘Your courage will make up for my lack of it,’ Estarinel told Shaell, running a hand down the stallion’s great, powerful neck. The undead warriors were right behind him as he rode hard at the wall. Shaell leapt, skidded on the mossy top of the wall, regained balance, took another stride and made a stomach-sinking leap to the ground below.

  Behind him, he heard Medrian – as always, more cheerful in a crisis – shout, ‘In case this horse can’t jump I’ll close my eyes!’

  A dead Gorethrian was at the palfrey’s flank. Twisting, she hacked off its arm, but it would not drop back. She made Taery dodge and, spooked, he galloped at the looming wall, too fast. And she did close her eyes as he took flight.

  The others saw the palfrey, like an eagle of pearly blue and gold, come soaring over the wall in one great leap. Taery landed like a bird, balanced, effortless. Even the neman – whose kind were noted for their dislike of horses – stared at Taery Jasmena in amazement.

  Eventually Ashurek broke the silence.

  ‘It seems worth returning to Arlenmia to ask where we can get a few more of those beasts,’ was all he said.

  Shaken and silent, they followed Benra, forded a knee-deep stream thick with bulrushes, then turned and followed the stream along its far bank. The waterway ran parallel to the wall for some distance. About two miles further on they saw a wide gap in the wall where once a gate had been, and now they clearly heard battle-shouts, steel ringing on steel.

  ‘One of our many disadvantages,’ said Benra, ‘is that whenever one of our soldiers is killed, it automatically joins the other side.’

  ‘But corpses don’t just walk from their graves and wage war on countries,’ Ashurek stated. ‘Whose army is it?’

  ‘Oh, they are the pets of a certain northern nobleman who’s decided to conquer this country – I gather re-animating corpses is one of his favourite hobbies. Setrel will tell you.’

  Ashurek did not ask who the nobleman was, for he already knew, and did not wish to hear the loathed name spoken.

  #

  They followed the stream across flat, marshy meadows until they came to a cart road that ran between fields and copses. At last they reached the village. A sign planted in the road read, ‘Hamlet of Morthemcote, Retherny Valley’.

  Wisps of mist clung around the village. The track wound between two rows of cottages, each a small, rounded structure of granite, the rich silvery grey rock tinted with pinks and fawns. These dwellings, with their pointed thatched roofs, oak doors and small leaded windows, reminded Estarinel poignantly of Forluin. A wide grass verge ran on each side of the road, the grass bright with flowers. Beyond the rooftops rose forested hills.

  The village was quiet, the silence broken now and then by birdsong, dogs barking, a cow lowing, children at play, a cart rattling down a track out of their sight. Deceptive peace.

  At last Benra led them to a larger dwelling, built as if five round cottages had been fused into one. Moss crusted the granite walls. A spiral of smoke floated from the chimney. The neman motioned them to dismount, set Skord on his feet and passed him to Ashurek, who held up the half-conscious boy. The oak door bore a small sign reading, The House of Setrel; Village Elder by appointment to the Long Table at Mardrathern.

  Benra knocked. The door opened and a rosy-faced girl of about fourteen looked out. She was wearing a long, sleeveless dress of purple velvet, a silver circlet on her long brown hair.

  ‘Good lady, is your father at home?’ the neman asked, giving a slight bow with all four arms held down by his sides.

  ‘Yes, come in, Benra,’ she said, smiling.

  The interior revealed a circular room with a slate floor, oak furniture, a large fireplace opposite the door. Three more doors led into further rooms. By the hearth sat a boy of about twelve, very similar to his sister, whittling a piece of wood. And poring over parchment documents at a table was Setrel himself, the village Elder. He stood up to greet them.

  Although not tall, Setrel was imposing. The bony nobility of his face was emphasised by his black, grey-streaked hair and beard. He wore a plain black robe.

  ‘What’s this, what strangers have you found?’

  The nemale warrior saluted. ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I detained them up on the road, heading straight for the battle area. I guided them around the danger… more or less. This boy with them is injured and sick, so I thought I’d best bring them to you. Also, I assume you’d like to check their identities?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Benra, you’ve done well. Bring them in. As for their horses…’ Setrel motioned the two children to the door and both rushed eagerly outside. ‘Atrel and Seytra will look after them. Now, will you go back up to the field of battle, Benra, and bring me a full report?’

  The neman grinned, saluted, and strode out.

  ‘Now. . . bring the lad through here.’ Setrel led them through one of the inner doors into a circular bedroom. Ashurek placed Skord on the bed.

  The boy lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, breathing very fast. His skin was waxen and felt cold and moist to the touch. Setrel took Skord’s chin in his fingers, turning the boy’s head from side to side while looking intently into his eyes.

  ‘I don’t know who you are, or what you’re doing wandering about in Excarith,’ said Setrel as he examined the boy. ‘I thought we’d warned everyone away.’ He struck Estarinel as a kindly and wise man who bore too many troubles.

  ‘We are three travellers on a personal errand,’ Ashurek began. ‘We were transported to this country by supernatural means from Belhadra, and we found ou
rselves in a rocky gorge with no idea of where we were. All we know of your war is what Benra told us, but I think I know your enemy.’

  ‘Supernatural means?’ said Setrel, pausing in his examination and looking hard at Ashurek. ‘A… gorge?’

  ‘I am only telling you this much because we need your help,’ said the Gorethrian.

  ‘It seems to me you haven’t told me anything at all,’ Setrel said shortly.

  ‘More than you realise. But I think there can be trust between us, because your terrible enemy is also mine: Gastada.’

  At this Setrel looked with sober surprise round the faces of the three. ‘I wonder who you are,’ he said as if to himself. ‘What is the help you need?’

  ‘A safe place for the boy to stay, so we may continue our journey – aboard a ship if possible.’

  ‘The boy will be safe enough here – but I cannot discern what’s wrong with him. He seems to be in deep shock.’

  Estarinel explained as best he could what had happened to Skord. ‘I think he’s killing himself through terror,’ the Forluinishman finished. ‘He’s lost the will to live.’

  ‘A wasting disease,’ Setrel agreed, looking down at the pallid, blank-eyed youth. ‘I will do what I can; first I’ll give him herbal mixtures to make him sleep. He needs rest, and then food. I hope you’ll stay with us for supper, so that we may talk.’

  The village Elder’s two rosy-faced children had fed and settled the horses, and had gone to bed. Darkness was falling as his wife Ayla, a stout, cheerful woman with curly brown hair, made them a meal of meat stew with bread. Earlier, they had heard Setrel talking to her outside, as she returned from an errand.

  ‘We have guests – there is a Gorethrian inside.’ His wife’s response was a startled, ‘Oh!’ but he continued, ‘However, don’t fear them – I believe them to be friends. They may help us. And listen – they claim that they came up out of the gorge.’

  To this Ayla had replied laughingly, ‘Oh, you and that wretched poem!’

  Now, as they sat round the wooden table, Estarinel noticed that Medrian was eating very little. All evening she had been silent. She listened with head bowed as Setrel spoke to them.

  ‘I don’t believe you are spies, in case you were wondering, because our enemy is of a quite different nature. As you said, it is Gastada we are fighting. We’ve heard many stories over the years of the terrible things he has done in his own country, but only in the past year has he launched this attack against us.’

  Setrel stroked his long, silky beard and gazed round at them, his eyes reflecting sparks of light from the fire. The room, in semi-darkness, was warm and homely, a complete and welcome contrast to the cold, metallic beauty of Arlenmia’s house.

  ‘Countries invade other countries,’ Setrel continued. ‘It is no rare thing. But Gastada, the Duke of Guldarktal, is no conventional enemy. His army is one of walking corpses, as you saw. They say he summons demons for his power… and in battle, any soldier of ours that dies immediately joins his dead army. Can you see what that means?’

  ‘That his army is invincible,’ said Ashurek.

  ‘Yes.’ Setrel shuddered. ‘And he is playing with us. He sent a message outlining his intention to invade Excarith. What cool arrogance! We haven’t much of an army, so the Long Table decided we should employ nemen mercenaries. They are good, but we haven’t yet won a battle. There’s been skirmish after skirmish, and each one, like today’s, has been ended only by the Dead Army withdrawing.’ His face was calm but his hands gripped the chair arms. ‘You understand that Gastada can finish us whenever he chooses.

  ‘We are an optimistic people – stoical, you might say. But we can see no way out of this horror. Gastada said he would send three black crows over as a sign when the final battle is nigh – so, we wait for the sign. We laugh and dance, and sharpen our weapons, and impoverish ourselves in hopes of being able to pay the nemen for one more week and one more week. We live our normal lives – and wait for our doom.’

  ‘Our optimism is wearing thin,’ Ayla put in. ‘I fear most for the children. But my husband, bless him, still thinks a miracle will save us.’

  Setrel laughed. ‘It’s true, if foolish. Still, I don’t let such speculation interfere with the practical work that must be done.’

  ‘So,’ Ashurek said after a pause, ‘Gastada will graciously let you know when he decides to destroy you? Much in character.’

  ‘You speak as if you know him.’

  ‘Regrettably, I do. He held me prisoner in his castle only a few years since.’

  ‘You are Prince Ashurek of Gorethria… are you not?’ Setrel’s eyes narrowed in speculation.

  ‘Your guess is correct,’ the Prince replied evenly.

  ‘By the gods… of all the strange things that have happened, this is the most unbelievable. You, appearing on my very doorstep! You must know that you have become a legend of the worst kind in Tearn. However, I hold that the reality behind any myth is always something quite unexpected, so I am not about to sit in judgment on you, nor flee for my life.’

  ‘I am gratified,’ said Ashurek with a wry grin.

  ‘Tell me, how did you escape from Gastada? If we could only find some vulnerability, some weakness in him…’

  ‘He has none, as far as I know. As you say, demons and fell creatures of the Serpent provide his power. I escaped only by a sorcerous raid made on the place.’ He explained Silvren’s bright enchanted rescue of him, but was unprepared for Setrel’s reaction to the account.

  The man leapt to his feet, eyes shining and his black robe flapping. ‘It’s true then! Ayla – did you hear?’ Estarinel and Medrian stared at him, but his wife just smiled and nodded in her down-to-earth way. ‘Sorcery exists! I knew! All my life – every moment of my spare time has been devoted to proving that there is a power other than the Serpent in the world. There is magic!’

  ‘Setrel, don’t raise your hopes. Silvren was a sorceress, the world’s first and only one. Her power was foreign to this world, and to use it caused her great pain. And now the Serpent’s creatures have imprisoned her, afraid of her magic,’ Ashurek said with acute sorrow. ‘Perhaps you have made a few small spells work?’

  ‘Yes I have, in my workshop – that’s just it,’ Setrel said with less enthusiasm.

  ‘But there can be no more sorcery on this Earth unless the Serpent should perish. Until then, demon-summoning is the only force, and no one in his right mind would resort to that.’

  Setrel sat down and said, ‘But my discoveries were not wrong. Sorcery can exist – if the Serpent were to die.’

  ‘If the Serpent were to die, Gastada would trouble you no longer either. And talking of that: in spite of your own problems, we would appreciate assistance in continuing our journey.’

  Setrel looked intently at the three. And he saw not, as others had, three very unlikely travelling companions, but three people of single-minded, sound purpose. Excitement and hope glowed warmly within him. Perhaps there was a way from the path of blood and death and darkness that threatened them.

  He took a long draught of beer and stood up to replenish the fire with logs.

  ‘As supper is finished, let us go in and see how the boy is.’

  In the bedroom, the Elder gently woke Skord. He came round slowly, seeming dazed. Estarinel propped him up and Setrel fed him a bowl of broth mixed with healing herbs. To their surprise he drank it all without protest. It must have been the first time he had eaten in over a week. He coughed a little, and after a few minutes fell asleep again, breathing slowly now. For the first time in days he seemed at peace. They stood about the oak bed, a single candle spreading their shadows on the circular wall of the room.

  ‘We’ll let him sleep until he wakes of his own accord,’ Setrel said. ‘As I said, he’ll be safe here for now – though what will happen with the war, I don’t know.’

  ‘Ashurek,’ said Estarinel, ‘isn’t there something we should tell Setrel?’

  ‘Tell him then,’ the Gorethr
ian replied shortly.

  ‘It’s that–’ he began hesitantly. ‘Skord’s demon can appear to him at any time. I don’t think it’s fair that you should have such a thing in your house…’

  Setrel smiled at this. ‘Ah, there you are wrong. No demon can cross my threshold. You poured scorn, Ashurek, upon my few small spells, but I have taught myself enough to keep a demon at bay.’

  ‘I do not scorn the power. I know it could be strong. But nothing can come of it until the path is cleared.’

  ‘Do you believe in fate – precognition?’ the Elder asked suddenly. ‘Follow me.’ He led the three into the central room of the cottage, his workshop. There was a fireplace, but no windows. It was an almost sinister place, with strange alchemical equipment set up on two long tables, and papers and scrolls and books scattered everywhere.

  ‘There is so much knowledge to be had of this world,’ Setrel began. ‘I believe everything that is to be known has been written down – history, everything about the Planes and their inhabitants, even all that is known of the Serpent – everything. Yet the ignorance of people amazes me. They know nothing, only superstition and hearsay. They never bother to search for knowledge, or read. Many do not even believe the Serpent exists – I did not myself, thinking it only a symbol of evil that was used as a scapegoat for inexcusable acts.

  ‘Then – many years ago now – I visited Eldor. He taught me that not only must I learn all I can from books, but that I must make discoveries of my own. Now all my spare time is spent researching, and everything I find out, or think I’ve found out, I write down.’

  ‘How can you do it all?’ Medrian said, her first words that evening. ‘Learn and discover everything, and fight a war at the same time?’

  ‘Because I believe in fate,’ the man answered with a smile. ‘Everything falls into place. And my theory is proved by your arrival here – I believe you three are part of the greatest, most vast design the Earth has seen since its creation.’

  Estarinel shook his head in denial of this awful thought, but Setrel continued, eyes glittering with anxious enthusiasm.