by Clare Smith
Jonderill nodded and closed his eyes and waited for something to happen. He had a distant memory of Maladran entering his mind and the brilliant white light that had burnt so fiercely. It was what he expected to happen but instead, there was a feeling of creeping coldness as if his blood was being replaced with ice. It spread from his fingers where he held the torc, up his arms and through his body.
He tried hard to relax, to ignore the strange sensation but the cold cramped his muscles and made him shake. His teeth began to chatter so he gritted them tightly together and concentrated on the icy fingers which were wrapping around his heart, squeezing it and making it stutter. He gasped in a ragged breath to shout for Callabris to stop, but then the cold was suddenly gone. In its place there was warmth and peace; his heart slowed to a gentle rhythm and his muscles relaxed until he felt as if he was floating. A comfortable blackness wrapped him up in a protective cocoon as he drifted into a deep sleep.
Callabris looked up at his protector who had moved to his side and gave him a small smile. “There was no block, whatever holds his magic back is of his own making. I’ve put him to sleep so he will have no memories of what I did or what I’m about to do. Allowyn, know that what I do now, I do for the good of the six kingdoms and never speak of it to anyone, least of all to Jonderill.”
With one hand Callabris took hold of the torc and placed his free hand on Jonderill’s forehead. He closed his eyes and in his mind created a small flame, big enough to light the way but not enough to burn. Gently he pushed the flame outwards until it met a resistance, something soft but solid, like a wall made of a feather mattress. He pushed against the wall feeling it resist and then give until instead of darkness there was light and fleeting images. People moved around the light; soldiers with swords and flame, a man with no hands, fear and agony and death. The flame was expelled from Jonderill’s mind with such force that Callabris was thrown back into his chair and would have fallen over if Allowyn had not caught him.
Allowyn held him for a while until the shaking magician was able to open his eyes and wipe the wetness from them. Callabris patted his protector gently on the arm to reassure him that he was alright, and then let him help him into a chair by the fire and gratefully took the proffered goblet of wine in his shaking hands. “I know now why Maladran blocked the boy’s memory and thankfully the block remains in place despite my meddling.”
“Do you know what happened, master?”
“Yes and no. Sit with me for a while Allowyn, this will not be easy for either of us. Allowyn took the chair opposite, his face pale and tense. “It’s as we thought, Coberin was attacked and his hands were taken from him. I saw no body so I can only assume he was held prisoner until he died. I’m sorry, Allowyn, but your brother was not there to protect him or to give his life for his master. Jonderill died a coward’s death on crossed pikes, naked, quartered and mutilated. The boy saw it all.”
Callabris waited in silence whilst Allowyn stared down at his hands and mourned his brother’s dishonourable death. “I will never believe that my brother dishonoured himself and left Coberin to die.”
“I knew your brother as well as I know you, and I know he would never do such a thing, he loved Coberin too much. There are things we’re not seeing here, pieces of the jigsaw which are missing or are being hidden from us.”
“What about the boy?”
Callabris sighed and shook his head. “We’re no further forward, we still don’t know for certain who he is, only that he’s the link between your brother and mine, Jonderill and Coberin, but we still don’t know what that means.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Conquest
It was the first time that Jonderill had ridden with an army, or at least enough armed men to make it look and behave like an army. He had ridden with Allowyn and the armsmen from the Enclave, but they had ridden in loose formation and had shared a communal fire and cooking pot. This was totally different. The two hundred or so royal guards rode in squads of twenty five strong and set up separate camps in blocks around a central area.
Somewhere behind them another thousand soldiers did the same. Instead of sleeping on the ground and packing their belongings on the back of their own horses, they slept in tents carried by the lumbering baggage carts which trundled slowly between them and the main army. Each tent held a squad of men packed so tightly together that if one man rolled over then they all had to roll over.
He, Callabris and the two protectors shared a smaller tent, which gave them plenty of room, as either Allowyn or Tissian were always outside on guard duty. During the day they rode behind the royal guards, chewing on their dust and picking grit from their skin. It could have been worse though, they could have been following the baggage carts and been lost in the dense cloud of dust being kicked up by the long line of wagons. Jonderill had questioned why so many wagons had been needed, but on the first night, when King Borman’s pavilion had been set up, including a large bed, carpets, chairs and tables and a special kitchen to prepare the king’s food, he learnt that kings travel in style.
Jonderill had also asked who it was who travelled in the coach with the shuttered windows and extra guards. Callabris said he didn’t know and then rapidly changed the subject, whilst Allowyn shrugged and walked away. They had to be someone important as food was being taken to them from the king’s own kitchen. On the third morning curiosity overcame him and he offered to help a harassed kitchen servant to carry food to the coach so he could see inside.
He was surprised to find that the coach only held three young people. The girl was pretty, about thirteen summers old with a shy smile, whilst the boys were younger, about ten and six summers and looked confused and scared. He was curious to know who they were, so he waited until their guards left to get their own meal and strolled over to the coach to introduce himself.
The girl wouldn’t speak and huddled back into the corner of the coach, but the two boys chatted about the journey until the guards returned and moved him on. The next day he returned with some confection Dozo had made from some wild honey, and on the following day, he persuaded the guard to let the boys out of the coach for a while to play catch with him, using a ball made of old scraps of leather. The boys laughed and enjoyed themselves but still didn’t tell him who they were or why they were travelling with the army.
Since their walk in the maze he hadn’t been summoned to the king’s presence again, although he had benefitted from eating the fine food Dozo brought him from the king’s kitchen instead of the less appetising soldiers’ fare. He didn’t mind being out of the king’s eye, it had given him more time to play with the children and to practice his magic, not that it was improving very fast. Now that Callabris had proven to him that Maladran had not placed a block on his magic, the only way he was going to get better was through practice and hard work. After his poor behaviour he owed it to Callabris and Tissian to show them that their faith in him was not unfounded.
However, today wasn’t a day for playing with children or practicing his magic as he and Callabris had been commanded by the king to ride at his side as they approached the estate house of Great Lord Andron of Leersland. They had been travelling across his lands for two days and so far there had been no sight of his own small army, about four hundred strong, or the thousand men Borman had stationed there. That changed as they crested a rise and saw the armies parading before them. It was an impressive sight. The king pulled his horse to a halt and waited for Callabris and Jonderill to ride up beside him.
“Jonderill, you are from Leersland. What do you know about Great Lord Andron?”
“Very little, Your Majesty. He is one of three Great Lords who share half the kingdom between them. I believe he was loyal to Sarrat.”
Borman looked irritated. “Not much indeed, even I know more. I’ve met the man who is both arrogant and a fool, but he has been of use to me, and for that I will give him the chance to join me.”
He urged his horse forward
and his two magicians and his guards followed leaving the baggage train safe in the lee of a hill. As they reached the flat land in front of the sprawling estate house the royal guards spread out forming a thin cordon around Andron’s army. When they were all in position, Borman pulled his horse to a halt and waited for Andron to come forward and greet him. He did so with his Guardcaptain, speaking urgently in his ear and Rastor, grinning like a fool, on the other side. They stopped in front of the king and all three bowed, although Andron’s was less than a bow and more like a cursory nod, which annoyed Borman.
“Your Majesty, it’s a pleasure to see you again and a great honour that you should come in person to assist me in taking the throne of Leersland which, as you know, is rightly mine. I would have already taken the throne if it hadn’t been for this cowardly fool you’ve put in charge of your men who has found a dozen different reasons not to march on Tarmin.”
Borman smiled. “Great Lord Andron, it is indeed a pleasure to meet you again, however I have some bad news for you. I regret that there’s been a change of plan. I’ve decided to take Leersland for myself, but you may accompany me if you wish and, if you prove helpful, I will allow you to keep your position and estates.”
Andron looked astonished and moved closer to the king so the others wouldn’t be able to hear what he was saying as he hissed through his teeth. “You can’t do that, we had an agreement; Leersland’s northern border in exchange for your assistance.”
Borman shrugged. “Things change.”
Filled with indignation the Great Lord leaned forward and went to argue further but could only gasp as Borman’s short sword pierced his right eye, carried on into his brain and appeared out the back of his skull. His horse reared at the sudden smell of blood and Andron toppled off backwards taking Borman’s sword with him. The king turned to Andron’s Guardcaptain who sat perfectly still on the ugliest horse he had ever seen, his hands resting on the saddle pommel and Rastor’s sword poking him in the ribs.
“Well?”
It was Sharman’s turn to shrug. “The man was a fool and never knew when to take good advice. If you tell me how you want the men deployed I’ll see to it that it’s done without any fuss.”
“I like a pragmatic man,” laughed Borman. “They’ll march in the centre of the column where we can keep an eye on them, but before they do, I want one in ten executed so that the rest understand who their new master is.”
“That won’t be necessary, Your Majesty, they’re fast learners. One in thirty will be sufficient.”
Borman laughed again. “I like you, Captain; you have a sense of humour. Make it one in twenty and take Rastor with you; he enjoys that sort of thing. When you’re done we’ll move out and join up with the rest of my army. I want to be sitting on my new throne before the moon reaches full again.”
*
Lord Istan sighed with relief as the gates of the fortress were opened for him and he urged his weary horse through into the courtyard. He was tired and dirty and totally dispirited. His stay in Essenland had been brief and the negotiations a sham. Vorgret’s council clearly had their instructions whilst the only thing he had to negotiate with was the already promised hand of Leersland’s queen. He had done his best, but the promised trade agreements which he had come away with were inadequate compensation for Tarraquin’s future, and he would tell her so. Now that he had escaped Essenland with his life, which at one stage he thought might be forfeit, he would do whatever he could to dissuade her against marrying that monster.
He dismounted and let a stable hand take his horse away giving it a final pat of thanks. The animal deserved its warm stable and a long rest, as he did, but first he needed to report. As he walked through the halls of the fortress on his way to the Queen’s receiving room it occurred to him how quiet the place was. Usually at this time of day the fortress would be full of activity with advisors and their scribes moving from place to place getting their orders for the day’s work. Obviously Tarraquin had not yet forgiven her council and the administration of the kingdom must have still been concentrated in the royal chambers.
With reluctance he passed the corridor which led to his own rooms and continued onto the Queen’s apartments. When he reached the single guard who barred his way to the Queen’s chamber he stopped in surprise. This hallway was never guarded by a single man, particularly by one who used to be loyal to Sarrat. He stopped and studied the man, wracking his brain to place his name. He gave up.
“Squad leader, what are you doing here? Let me pass.” The soldier bowed briefly and Istan recognised him as one of the fortress guards who had surrendered without a fight. The name didn’t really matter; he looked determined enough and held a drawn weapon.
“I’m sorry, My Lord, I cannot let you pass, the Queen’s chambers are closed.”
“Closed? Where is the Queen?”
“The Queen has gone, My Lord. Captain Malingar is acting regent in her absence.”
“What!” exclaimed Istan in astonishment. “Where is Captain Malingar?”
“He’s deploying the newly arrived troops from Leersland, My Lord.”
Istan looked confused. Could so many things have changed in the short time he had been away? “What of Master Jarrul and the council?”
“I cannot say, My Lord. I’m just a door guard.”
Istan could have kicked him, but it was pointless taking his frustration out on a simple soldier who was following orders. Instead he turned on his heel and marched back to the treasury where Master Zott should be working; hopefully he would have some answers. When he reached the treasury it too was quiet, but fortunately the leader of the city’s counting houses was in the room he had taken over since being appointed in charge of Leersland’s treasury. He looked up when Istan entered and smiled in welcome but Istan didn’t give him the chance to speak.
“Good day, Master Zott. Can you tell me please what is going on?”
Zott frowned at his abruptness; it was unlike the young lord not to share a pleasantry. He waved him to a chair and poured his guest and himself some watered wine. “Quite a lot has happened since you left, and not much of it good I’m afraid. We heard that Master Jarrul was being held prisoner in Tarbis, so the Queen has gone to rescue him, leaving Captain Malingar in charge. He reconvened the council and then went north. He has only recently returned with a thousand troops from Northshield which he’s now busily deploying in key places around Tarmin.”
Istan was astonished. Had everyone gone mad? “If the Queen and Malingar are away, who is in command of the city and the fortress?”
“Well, I suppose I am, or it could be Guildmaster Jobes, I’m not sure. However, now you have returned, you are in charge.”
“I see.” He put his head in his hands and thought for a moment. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but something doesn’t feel right. Why would Malingar let the Queen go off on a fool’s errand without going with her, and then suddenly appear with all these troops at his back?” Istan looked up with a frown on his face. “I think we should summon the council straight away.”
“I can do that but it will take a candle length or two. Fortunately most of the councillors should be at their place of trade or their guild houses at this time of day.”
“Good. If you would do that I’ll go and clean myself up.”
Istan stood and left Zott to it, hurrying back in the direction of his rooms and making a mental note of what he needed to do and in what order. He had almost reached his destination when a servant hurried up behind him calling his name. Istan groaned inwardly to himself at the likely delay, and turned to find out what was so urgent that it wouldn’t wait until he had taken a bath.
“Lord Istan, come quickly. Master Jarrul has returned but I think he’s injured or something.”
He forgot about the bath and hurried after the servant, back down the corridors he had just trodden, out of the fortress’s main door into the courtyard and across to the low building where the troop captains had their quarters. A
large crowd had gathered in the doorway of the common room and it took them a few moments to move out of the way to let him pass. Inside Jarrul lay stretched out on a couch with his feet dangling over one end.
If Istan thought he looked road weary, it was nothing to how Jarrul looked. His boots were covered in mud, and his once fine travelling clothes were ragged and filthy. His hands and his arms were covered in briar scratches, some of which had bled and scabbed over, and beneath a thick layer of dirt, his face was deathly pale. Istan called his name and Jarrul’s eyes flicked open. He began to cough and fight for breath like a man two days’ away from the grave.
Istan angrily turned on the gawking crowd. “You, help him sit up before he chokes and you, get some cloths to clean him up. The rest of you get out of here, now.”
People ran to obey his commands and Istan knelt by Jarrul’s side and took his shaking hands, whilst Jarrul gasped and wheezed as his coughing fit passed. When he finally had enough breath to talk, he sent his helpers away and carried on cleaning himself up as best as he could.
