by Clare Smith
Having pushed her way through the mercenaries Tarraquin’s patience was being sorely tried by Malingar’s intransigence. She took a deep, calming breath and changed tactics. “Captain Malingar, have you forgotten that I am your queen and you have given me an oath of loyalty and obedience? I have given you an order and you will obey it.”
Malingar went to argue again, looked at Tarraquin’s determined face and gave in. His orders had been to try and keep her from harm but if she insisted on doing something stupid then there wasn’t a lot he could do about it. He turned to Tordray and gave a quick command and then turned back to the queen who, he’d thought, he’d left safely in the throne room with her two advisors and her maids to wait on her. Whilst he’d been gathering his men and preparing for the inevitable battle she had been causing chaos.
How in hellden she had managed to completely change the situation in such a short time was beyond him. It had taken him less than a candle length to complete his preparations and have his men in formation outside of the city gates. However, in that time she had left the safety of the fortress, found a horse, white flag and royal standard and now sat in front of him looking every bit the queen and in command of the situation.
She was impressive too, sitting on her horse without a saddle looking as if she had been born there, which was more than could be said for either Jarrul or Istan who she had persuaded to go along with her dangerous plan. They looked like they would slide off the broad backs of their requisitioned coach horses at any moment, whilst she looked magnificent with her long dress flowing down the sides of her horse and her cloak draped gracefully over its quarters.
From the moment she had ridden up to him with her two lackeys in tow, he’d tried to persuade her against her plan, but she wouldn’t be moved. He cursed under his breath at her interference. It was typical of a woman to want to resolve a situation like this peacefully when what was needed was bloodshed. The man next to her unfurled the white flag he’d been given and Jarrul handed her the crown which she placed on her head, pushing it down as hard as it would go to stop it falling off. Tarraquin gave Malingar a brief smile which he didn’t return and together they trotted into the space between the two armies with their small party behind them.
Andron waited until he was certain how many people the enemy commander was bringing with him and then set off with two more guards for good luck. As he drew closer he could see the crown on the head of the woman and cursed under his breath at her audacity, but he would wipe that smile of her face once he showed her what Lozin carried in his pannier. He pulled his horse to a stop and Lozin and his Guardcaptain rode up beside him whilst his four guards fanned out behind.
Tarraquin rode a few paces forward of the rest to meet him. “Great Lord Andron, welcome to Tarmin. It’s always a pleasure to see you although it might have been better if you’d left your friends behind.”
“Madam, you have me at a temporary disadvantage. Who in hellden are you and what are you doing with that bloody thing on your head?”
Malingar rode up beside her and went to pull his sword at the insult but Tarraquin gently restrained him. “That’s no way to address your queen,” he said instead.
“Queen! What fucking queen?”
“Lord Andron,” interrupted Istan riding up next to Tarraquin. “May I present the daughter of King Malute and rightful heir to the throne of Leersland.”
Andron let out a bellow of laughter. “Malute’s been dead for over ten summers, boy; don’t you know your legal constitution? If there’s no successful claim of succession within ten summers then the one who holds the crown becomes the legitimate ruler. It’s the law in all the six kingdoms.”
“That’s true,” conceded Istan, “but if the claimant can prove the ruler murdered the king and then prevented the rightful heir from making a claim, then the ten summers rule doesn’t apply.”
“Unless the ruler is dead and cannot be taken to account for his crimes in which case his heir or the senior lord of the realm becomes the legitimate ruler,” concluded the Great Lord with a satisfied smirk.
“So?”
Andron leant from his saddle and reached into the pannier carried by the horse next to him and pulled out the decaying remains of Sarrat’s head. “Sarrat’s dead.”
They stared in horror at the blackening, slightly bloated lump hanging by its hair from Andron’s hand with its swollen tongue protruding from the side of its mouth and one eye hanging lose from its socket. Tarraquin turned aside and vomited as the wind wafted the stench of decay her way and Andron threw the lump onto the ground between them with a wet thud.
“You killed him?” asked Jarrul in a shocked voice.
“Of course I didn’t kill him, his magician did that, but Sarrat is dead right enough and without leaving any legitimate heirs, which leaves me the highest ranking noble in Leersland, so that makes me king.”
“I think not,” responded Istan. “Malute’s daughter was anointed on her first summer’s day. She outranks you so that makes her queen.”
“Besides which,” put in Jarrul, “She has received the oaths of loyalty from Leersland’s leaders, the public acclaim of her people and she wears the crown. I really do think that makes her queen.”
“Not in my eyes it doesn’t,” snapped Andron. “And I will fight anyone for what is rightly mine.”
“That would not be a good idea, Great Lord,” said Tarraquin quietly. “If you fight a great many men will die and even if you win the battle, the palace guard will not let you into the city. It would be far better if you were to return to your estates and reconsider your position and when you have seen the sense of what I have said, we can talk about a suitable role for you in the government of Leersland.”
The Great Lord dropped his hand angrily to his sword and went to draw the weapon but Sharman leaned across, pressed the hilt of his master’s sword back into its scabbard and whispered something urgent in his ear. Andron glared at him but removed his hand from his weapon. He turned back to Tarraquin and gave her a look of pure hatred.
“You win this round girl but you won’t always have that bunch of paid thugs at your back. There are plenty of fighting men in this kingdom including the remains of Sarrat’s army who will follow me and then there are those outside of Leersland who will want to see a strong king on the throne, not some slip of a girl. Enjoy your time playing at being queen. It won’t last long.”
He turned away and Tarraquin watched him go wondering if it wouldn’t have been better fighting him after all.
*
“How could you not know that Sarrat was dead?” demanded Tarraquin angrily.
“How could we know?” replied Jarrul tiredly. He sat on a hard backed chair in the corner of the chamber Tarraquin had taken as her working room, nursing a mug of herb tea which Birrit had made for him. “Even now we don’t know the details except that he died some time ago by Maladran’s hand and that Andron found the body.”
The queen shook her head in disbelief. “If only we had known we could have marched into Tarmin and taken the throne openly instead of going through all that cloak and dagger nonsense.”
Tarraquin sat back in the padded chair by the fire and fought off the temptation to close her eyes and go to sleep. She felt as if she had been awake for a moon cycle and yet only a day and a night had passed since she had slept on the throne room floor waiting to face her people. In that time she had been crowned, prevented a war, formed a council and overseen the execution of the Lord Keeper of the Keys.
Of all the things that she had done to take the crown, that was the one she regretted. The man had held out longer than expected under the ministrations of Malingar’s questioners before he divulged the whereabouts of the keys, crown and seal. Considering the state of his mutilated body, his quick execution had really been a mercy, but she still felt guilty. She looked at the crown sitting on the desk and decided she preferred the fake one; it wasn’t nearly such a burden.
“More importantly,” said Malingar breaking into her
thoughts, “We could have captured the loyalty of the remnants of Sarrat’s army in the south. I fear that we may be too late and that Andron has already given them his own version of Sarrat’s death and his rightful claim to the throne.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” said Istan. He’d propped himself up by the window and despite the early hour, he was sipping at a goblet of wine. His only concession to the time of day was that the wine was a delicate white and not the red he usually drank. “I also think we should not dismiss his other threats. If he goes to the other kingdoms with stories of a murdered king, mercenary armies and a usurper on the throne of Leersland then he is bound to get some support.”
“But it wasn’t like that.”
“No, it wasn’t, Your Majesty, but that’s what he will say.”
“Then we must do something about it.” She thought for a moment resting her aching head in her hand.
“What we need are more soldiers to defend Tarmin and Leersland from attack,” said Malingar with conviction.
Jarrul shook his head. “No, fighting is not the answer. What we need to do is tell our version of the story before Andron does.”
Malingar jumped up and turned on Jarrul ready to defend his point, but Tarraquin held up her hand to stop them. “Gentlemen, you are both right. What we need is help from those who know that I am the rightful queen and I don’t think we are going to get that by sitting around here arguing amongst ourselves.”
“What we need are envoys,” put in Lord Istan. “They used to come to Sarrat’s court from time to time and he was obliged to listen to them. He even agreed to their proposals on rare occasions and he always treated them with the utmost respect to their face, if not behind their back.”
The queen nodded in approval. “That’s a good idea. We could put our case and ask each of the kingdoms to provide a small force against any insurrection until I have secured my throne. That way no one kingdom would be tempted to invade for fear of upsetting the others and Andron could easily be contained. What do you think?”
The others nodded cautious ascent. “Who will you send?” asked Jarrul.
“Why, you of course, along with Lord Istan.” She smiled at Malingar. “You have connections in Northshield, don’t you?”
“Yes, My Lady. I would be pleased to present your request to King Borman.”
“And you, Lord Istan?”
“My house and the royal house of Essenland have had close ties for generations and Prince Pellum and I have hunted together on a number of occasions. I would be happy to go there and then on to Vinmore.”
“Jarrul, can you manage Tarbis?”
“I’m no diplomat, My Lady, and besides which, if we all go who will be here to advise you.”
“I have faith in you, Jarrul, and don’t worry about advice. Haven’t I just appointed a council, including Guildmaster Jobes?” She looked at Istan accusingly and gave a small laugh. “That’s settled then. With the exception of Sandstrone, which I don’t think would be pleased to see any of you; my three special envoys will seek support from the six kingdoms. Good luck my friends.”
“I think we are going to need it,” muttered Jarrul to himself.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
CHAPTER EIGHT
Acolytes
“No! No! No! Haven’t you learnt anything in the twenty summers you have lived in this land of magic?”
The Master of Magic, a small round man with the face of a cherub flicked Jonderill around the ear with his thin, whippy wand making a sound like the snapping of a twig and making Jonderill jump. The brief strike didn’t hurt, or at least the first one hadn’t but after half a dozen such assaults, his ear was starting to feel tender and the irritable flick felt like the sting of a buzzing insect. That wasn’t what hurt though; it was the humiliation of being an utter failure.
After a complete moon cycle of instruction, cajoling and threats he still hadn’t been able to move a single wine berry on the table in front of him at all, let alone from one side of the table to the other. Now his humiliation was complete as the wavering ball of elemental fire at the end of his fingers spluttered and went out leaving the candle, he was trying to ignite, unlit. Behind him he could hear the small group of acolytes whisper amongst themselves and snigger at his failure. This time the master didn’t bother to silence them but just stood with his hands on his hips and glared at Jonderill.
“I don’t know why I’m wasting my time on you, boy. Even these fools can control elemental fire and move small objects around and they are just ungifted boys. Why the High Master believes you to be anything more than an ignorant peasant beats me. Now try again. Use what little bit of a brain the goddess has given you and concentrate on rolling that wine berry across that table.”
Jonderill took a deep breath and stared at the wine berry but the wine berry remained where it was. He raised his wand and pointed at the wine berry and concentrated on its roundness and how easy it would be for it to roll across the table, but still it wouldn’t move. Feeling completely foolish he leant forward and put the tip of his wand a fraction from the smooth red skin and muttered the words he’d been taught under his breath but still nothing happened.
“Louder!” commanded the Master of Magic; flicking his wand once more into the side of Jonderill’s ear.
“Damn it!” shouted Jonderill bringing his wand down on top of the wine berry, splitting the skin and squashing it messily into the table top. “I’ve had enough of this and enough of you too.”
He threw the wand on the floor and barged past the surprised master almost knocking him to the ground. The others watched in stunned silence as Jonderill threw open the door of the instruction room and slammed it shut behind him. For a moment there was silence and then the small group of acolytes burst out into excited conversation.
“Silence!” commanded the Master of Magic as he straightened his robes that Jonderill had knocked askew. “You will leave now and you will say nothing of this disgraceful exhibition to anyone, do you understand?”
The acolytes nodded and meekly trouped out of the room under the stern eye of the master without saying a word.
“There’s not much hope that they’ll keep that incident to themselves, is there?” said a voice from behind the master.
He jumped in surprise and turned and bowed. “I regret not, High Master. You saw what happened?”
“Only the last few moments, but I assume that the rest of the time he has spent with you has been equally unproductive?”
“The boy’s an idiot. I’ve spent a moon cycle trying to teach him the basics of magic but he lacks concentration, his enunciation is peasant and his movements are as coarse as a muck digger. He’s only fit to be a servant and a lowly one at that.”
High Master Razarin wandered slowly around the room thoughtfully touching the array of objects that the Master of Magic used in his lessons. “And yet the blessed goddess favours him?”
“Perhaps the goddess is mistaken.”
“Perhaps, but Callabris too saw something in the boy.”
The master shrugged. “Since the death of his brother, Callabris searches for a replacement. The boy has green eyes but that is where the similarity ends. Believe me, Jonderill is definitely not another Coberin.”
“You may be right but I don’t think we should give up on Jonderill just yet.” He smiled at the Master of Magic as he studied a wooden bowl full of squashed red fruit. “I think you need to buy yourself some more wine berries.” He pushed the bowl into the hands of the astonished master and left by the same hidden door which he’d used to enter the room a short time before.
Jonderill had marched out of the House of Learning slamming every door behind him and stamped across the carefully manicured lawns until he reached the main roadway through the city. From there he turned away from the goddess’s temple and the buildings where the acolytes lived and followed a lesser road. It brought him to Smith’s Square where he took the second exit under an archway, turned around the corner of a buildi
ng and stomped loudly up the wooden stairway which led to the collection of small rooms above the Armsmaster’s Inn.
As usual, the outside door was unlocked and the inside hallway was unlit, so he slipped inside and in the dark, counted down four doors until he found his room. He retrieved the iron key from the pouch at his belt, let himself in and locked the door behind him. Breathing heavily he stood in the dark room with his eyes closed. When his breathing had slowed and he’d stopped shaking with anger and frustration he opened his eyes, held out his hand in front of him and produced a steady flame at the end of his fingers which he used to light the small oil lamp at the side of his bed.
Slowly and with deliberate care, he pulled his grey robe over his head, rolled it into a tight ball and dropped it into the empty slop bucket in the corner. Equally as carefully he picked up the oil lamp and dropped it on top of his robe taking a hasty step back as the glass shattered and the flame caught. The spilt oil from the broken lamp flared up and lit the room with a lurid red glow. He sat on the edge of his bed in his small clothes and watched the conflagration until the flames had died down.
