A bloodied rag lay in front of her face. Two of the men – the man who had taken her from her bedchamber, who she'd heard being referred to as Graff, and a stunted, dwarf-like man with a piggy nose – had wiped their hands on it. Two hours out of Kingstown, the wain had stopped. After which, Graff and the dwarf-like man had disappeared back up the road. They were gone for some time, which had given Mr Crooked Nose further opportunity to feel Cassandra with his eyes. When the men had returned their hands were as red as strawberry jam. They climbed back into the wain and wiped their hands on the rag. She opened her mouth to ask what they had been doing, but changed her mind when she caught a glimpse of the demented expressions on their faces. She'd seen that look before, on the face of a murderer in the moments before he was hanged. That was the first and last time she'd attended a public execution, she remembered.
At the thought of Kingstown, she began thinking about her wedding day, which was to happen on the morrow. The day was set to coincide with her monthly cycle, as was customary when wizard bearers took their vows. Courtship with her wedded husband would follow the ceremony, she knew. On this day and the day after, and possibly the day after that, she was at her most fertile. Do these people know that? she thought. Is that why they've taken me? Am I not to be held for ransom and instead impregnated, perhaps by Volk himself? But she answered her own question: I can grow a wizard in my womb with just a man's seed. What do I think they want with me?
She thought of the type of children that union would produce. Hideous beings, surely. But powerful. And mine, no matter who the father.
She lay back and studied the sky. Clouds gathered, snubbing out the sun and with it the little warmth it offered. Someone had mentioned snow; perhaps it was the man with the thinly cropped beard who had given her his sheepskin, but she couldn't be sure. She liked snow, but didn't want to be in the hills when it began to fall. The first falls of winter were always the heaviest, she recalled.
They were going uphill and the temperature was dropping. Rocks protruded from the green grass like gravestones. She willed the wain to hit one and break its wheels. It will give the Kingstown soldiers chance to catch up, as I'm sure the king has sent an army in pursuit of me. She had never been this far from Kingstown before. Once, when she was but seven, her father had taken her to the edge of Kettlethorpe Woods. That was the only time she could remember leaving the city walls. It had been summer and a warm one at that, she recalled. Her father told her the heat had brought fairies to the edge of the forest to seek water from the springs. She had been so excited at the prospect of seeing such magical creatures. Disappointment followed, though, when they found the springs void of water and fairies. It seemed the heat had sucked the springs dry.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the call of “whoa” from the man in the wagoner's seat. He had seen rabbits and called to the others in excitement.
The wain complained with a creak and then stopped. The man she believed to be called Graff stood. “Come on,” he said, gesturing to the dwarf-like man next to him. Then, pointing: “You two stay here.” The two other men in the back of the wain nodded. Mr Crooked Nose made a casual sweep of Cassandra's body with loveless eyes. She looked away, cold and frightened.
Minutes later, the man who had taken her from her bedchamber reappeared holding two limp, runtish rabbits by their hind legs.
“Fancy something to eat, missy?” he said. His voice was more of snarl. He held the rabbits higher; they swayed like hung men on nooses.
She looked away. “I'm not hungry.”
In Kingstown, her food was always prepared for her. When it reached her plate it never resembled the animal it once was. I really am hungry, though, she thought, despite her disgust of the dead creatures.
“Shouldn't we continue to High Hunsley?” said Mr Crooked Nose. “We could be there by dark if we keep going. I'm sure the king will prepare us a hearty meal on arrival, if we ask nicely.” He held up a knife and grinned.
Graff ignored Mr Crooked Nose. “We've got all the time in the world, missy. Besides, the horse needs to rest if we are to make it up those hills there.” He pointed to the steep slopes of Drewton Hills. “We'll build a fire and have ourselves something to eat. Besides, I like to fill my belly after taking one of Kingstown's finest assets.” He stretched his lips, baring his blackened, broken teeth. Then, more sharply, he said: “Bring her.”
The man with the short beard, with help from Mr Crooked Nose, lifted her from the wain. They pulled her to a clearing, her chained feet trailing on the ground.
They could attack me here, she thought. Five men, my wrists and ankles bound . . . I'm defenceless.
But they didn't. They sat her down, while they collected wood and then built a fire. Graff skinned the rabbits. He did this in front of her, grinning like a fool, no doubt enjoying the discomfort it brought her. She tried not to look, but she could hear the tearing of skin and smell the metallic stench of blood. When they began to cook the animal, however, the smell was pleasant, reminding her of home.
“I think we could do with some introductions, don't you?” Graff said. “My name is Graff, but you know that already. I’m not a very nice person, missy. And don’t believe I won’t kill you if the mood takes me, because I will. But that’s enough about me. This short fellow to my right here is Ancel.” He nodded to the short dwarf-like man. “His mother was a dwarf, his father a Man of the North, or to you and me, a Savage. Two of the most vertically challenged and unfortunate races known to man. Guess he didn't stand a chance, eh?” He elbowed Ancel, who fell sideways onto the frozen ground. “The handsome man sitting next to you is Haze.” He gestured to the man with the thinly cropped beard. “One of the finest with sword and shield I've ever seen.”
“Pleased to meet you, ma'am,” Haze said. He placed his hand in Cassandra's chained ones and lifted them to his lips, where he kissed the fingers on each as if she were a princess.
“The ugly bugger sitting to your left is Powel.” The man she had named Mr Crooked Nose grinned. She held his gaze for just a second and then looked away. She disliked them all, but she disliked him the most.
“And that just leaves our driver Giz.” This was the first time Cassandra had been able to have a proper look at the man who had ridden in the wagoner's seat. He was young, but when he lifted off his helm his scalp was completely bald. He nodded to her and then continued to poke the fire with a stick. “We are taking you to High Hunsley. That's where we'll spend the night. In the morn we'll continue on the Great Road until we reach the safety of Wyke. Three days that will take us. There we'll hand you over to the great one Volk.”
“You'll never get away with this,” Cassandra spat, anger making her voice quiver. “The king will send men.”
“He already did send men. Two. That's all you're worth, apparently. We took care of them.” Cassandra remembered the red she'd seen on Graff and Ancel's hands. She looked to the dancing flames of the fire, disheartened. “I'm sure they'll send more, but we'll take care of them too.” Graff began to tear meat from one of the charred rabbit carcasses. “We even brought plates and cutlery, because we know how prim and proper you’d be, missy. Get a fork out the bag for her, Giz.” The bald-headed man reached into a small satchel. “Be careful, you know what else is in there, right?”
Giz nodded and then handed Cassandra a misshapen, dirty-coloured fork.
“What is in there?” Cassandra said. The satchel bulged. She'd heard a clank from inside when Giz carried it from the wain, as if it contained glass.
“Never you mind, missy,” Graff said.
“My great-uncle is a powerful wizard,” Cassandra said, boldly.
“Fabian?” Graff scoffed. “That old fool? He lives like a hermit in the hills of the north. Probably isn't even aware you're missing.”
“And my uncle Eaglen. He's a wizard too.”
“Again, a recluse. Lives in the south. Keeps himself to himself. Wizards don't worry me, missy.”
“Well they should,” she
said, a little more aggressively than she'd intended.
“I think there's one thing you need to remember, little miss.” Graff leaned forward, looking at her through dancing flames and heat-warped air. He raised his hands in a surrender pose and began to turn them at the wrists. “With these hands and a little help from my trusty dagger, I've killed one hundred and sixty-seven people, and that's not counting those I've maimed or disfigured for life. Ancel here is not far behind my death tally. But Haze over there, he's the champ, with his blade he's cut down over five hundred men. Too many to count, in fact. Now Powel, he enjoys a kill more than any of us do. His tally is a little more modest, but as I said, he likes to savour each and every one. What's your current tally, Powel? Twenty or twenty-one?”
“Nineteen,” the man with the crooked nose said, looking proud.
“You could well witness his twentieth, then, missy. We can all celebrate it together. Now Giz here, he's just a young un. Just starting out, he is. But we're teaching him well.” Graff placed a hand around Giz's shoulder and pulled him into a hug. “Aren't we teaching you well, Giz?”
“Yes, sir, “Giz said. “First time I tried to kill a man I got it all wrong. Punctured his lung several times and he ended up choking to death on his own blood. Took him ten whole minutes to die, poor bastard.”
Cassandra felt nauseous. The smell of the rabbits was turning her stomach.
“And, missy,” Graff continued. “My tally is mostly men. You don't want to know what I do to the ladies. If they live, they usually wish they were dead.”
He left the sentence hanging in the air, the crackling fire its only interruption.
Then, loud enough to make her jump, he said: “Right then, let's be off. We can eat the rest of the meat on the way. I want to reach High Hunsley before dark.”
They carried her back to the wain. Powel squeezed her bottom as he thrust her back onto the hay. Soon, they were moving again. The wain trundled behind the horse, her captors resuming their previous silence. She looked to the horizon they were leaving behind where trees obscured its perfect line. She hoped to see riders clad in green, swords raised, horses charging, but she saw nothing but a cold winter's day, stark and insignificant.
All hope is lost, she thought. I must accept my fate.
CHAPTER 4
“Now let me get this straight,” said Gaillart Gregory, the realm's Grand Master. “You sent an outlaw in pursuit of Elt's most precious possession. Furthermore, you sent the head of the king's guard with two inexperienced boys and a wizard yet to experience any form of conflict whatsoever?”
King Bahlinger shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Around the table, four pairs of eyes studied him with contempt. One pair of eyes belonged to his wife, and she gave him the most condescending look of all.
Bahlinger leaned forward, feeling his ample gut press against the edge of the round wooden table. “Are you forgetting to whom you're talking, Gaillart?” It was hard for Bahlinger to speak quietly, even as a child he'd been loud, much to his mother's displeasure. As he spoke, he could feel his voice tearing at his throat. “I am your king. Your job here is to advise me on military matters, not to tell me what to do. You'd do well to remember that. And Stetland Rouger is no outlaw, he's a man of Kingstown.” He pointed one stubby, ring-clad finger at the Grand Master.
Gaillart Gregory blinked with every syllable that came out of Bahlinger's mouth. All eyes were now on the Grand Master.
“All I am saying is,” Gaillart said in a quieter, calmer voice, “that it would have been advisable to hold counsel before the decision was made. I for one would have voted in favour of sending an army in pursuit of the wizard bearer instead of five hapless fools.”
“Do you think we had time to hold counsel?” King Bahlinger boomed back.
“The king had to make a very quick decision,” Herman Lewis said. Bahlinger could always count on Herman for support, even though the king knew that the thin, weasel-like man's opinions were built on his need to keep his position as the castle's chamberlain and nothing more. If only Gaillart had similar needs. The Grand Master was a well-respected figurehead of the realm's military muscle and Bahlinger needed him to keep the realm's home guard and soldiers on side.
“It shows weakness,” Gaillart said, folding his arms like a spoilt child. “You deliberately avoided counsel. I sent several messages to you in the early hours of this morning, none of which you replied to.”
Avoiding you and your messenger boy kept me on my toes, I can tell you, Bahlinger thought.
“There was no one to hold counsel with,” Bahlinger said. “You were all hiding in your chambers, quivering like fools. Where were you, Lambert Germain, when the gates were breached?”
The old steward dropped his eyes to the table. “I was told not to leave my chambers, my king. Too dangerous, they said.”
Three gold coins that cost me.
“Too right it was dangerous,” the king said, slapping the table with one large hand. Lambert Germain jumped with fright; his slight shoulders hunched momentarily. “Our city was breached.”
“And none of this in-fighting will change that,” Queen Rose said, her voice steady and composed, much to Bahlinger's annoyance. How does she always manage to make me look like an incompetent fool with just a few casual words?
“Quite right, ma'am,” Gaillart Gregory said. “But the response should have been mightier, if only to reassure the people of this city.”
“I made my decision,” King Bahlinger said, “and that's final.”
“Gaillart is right. We should have held counsel before the decision was made to send this strange band of men you've cobbled together. Why didn't you consult with us, Bahlinger?” Rose's face was hard and far from sympathetic.
“What do you think this is?” Bahlinger said, holding his arms out wide to the table's occupants. “I'm consulting with you now.”
“You sent for Stetland Rouger without even mentioning it to me. And when he arrived at the castle you deliberately kept me in my bedchamber. Just what is going on, Bahlinger?”
“She doesn't know, does she?” Gaillart said, a smug look on his broad, bearded face.
“Know what?” Rose snapped.
Bahlinger bowed his head. I've been juggling this secret, badly, for far too long, like a jester with arthritic wrists.
“Your king,” Gaillart said, “is a bad chess player.”
“I don't understand,” Rose said. Bahlinger remained quiet, hoping for something to happen; an earthquake, a storm that would send the western seas sweeping across the city, anything, but his wife persisted. “Bahlinger, tell me of what the Grand Master speaks.”
“Should I tell her, Sire?” Gaillart said.
One day I'll wipe that smug grin of your chiselled face.
Before Bahlinger could open his mouth the Grand Master had begun to talk: “Your king seems to have lost all his pawns, and his knights for that matter, leaving the poor little bishops to protect his queen and castle.”
“How?” Rose said, sharply. Her eyes were afire with rage.
Bahlinger sighed. “We are fighting too many battles on too many fronts, my dear.”
“You mean to say that we haven't enough soldiers?” She left the words hanging for a moment before continuing: “Is that why you sent the outlaw? You're hoping that his little band of misfits will find and save Cassandra saving you from the embarrassment of not having enough men?”
“There are advantages to sending Stetland. He knows Lord Merek. He will be allowed to enter High Hunsley, something our soldiers alone would not have been afforded.”
“And if you sent an army, that army wouldn't be large enough to breach High Hunsley's walls, right?”
“Something like that,” Bahlinger said. Lifting his goblet, he called to a servant girl to fill his cup with wine.
“This is serious, Bahlinger,” Rose continued. “What do you two have to say about this?” She looked to Herman Lewis and Lambert Germain, each in turn. “Well?”
“The war is growing,” Lambert said, bravely. “We've called upon all our lords to use their men against Volk's army, but we are losing territories in the north by the day.”
The servant girl arrived with a vessel of wine. He had seen her before; a pretty girl with fiery red hair.
“And what will happen if the war reaches our walls?” Rose said.
“We need to bring men back from the front,” Gaillart said. “Consolidate our forces. I've been telling your king the same for weeks.”
“Well, as soon as we get Cassandra back home safely – if we get her back – that is exactly what we'll do,” Rose said.
Bahlinger was hardly listening. The servant girl was leaning over the table, pouring wine into his cup. The king let his eyes rest upon her cleavage. The milky white mounds of her breasts were threatening to spill out of her tight, low-cut dress. His heart began to pound and there was a stirring in his trousers, a rare feeling for him that could not be replicated by the sight of his queen's thin and uninspiring body.
“Is that enough, Your Majesty?” the servant girl said.
“Huh?” Bahlinger looked up into the servant girl’s fresh, blue eyes. She was smiling at him with lips as full and as plump as a piece of red meat. She saw me looking, and she was flattered.
“Is that enough wine?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Bahlinger said, flustered.
She wrinkled her lightly freckled nose at him before walking back in the direction of the kitchens. Bahlinger followed her walk. He couldn't see much of the shape of her bottom behind the puff of her dress, but the sway of her hips was enough to send the beat of his heart into a gallop.
“Are you paying attention?” Rose said to her husband. Bahlinger turned to her. “Or is the servant girl far more important than the security of your people?”
All eyes were now on the king. He could feel his cheeks burning red with embarrassment.
Battle for Elt: The Taking of the Wizard Bearer Page 3
