It was darker once she got under the trees. The only noise was the gusty wind blowing through the leaves, but it was loud enough to make her task more difficult. She rode slowly, her senses alert for any sign or sight of game.
A pale shape huddled at the foot of a massive tree caught her eye. Going nearer, she saw it was a child, lying motionless on the stirring drifts of brown leaves. She jumped off her horse and went quickly over, shrugged off her bow and crouched beside him. He was about twelve, she guessed. Perhaps he had been climbing the tree and had fallen.
“What happened, where are you hurt?”
The boy did not respond, even when she squeezed his arm. She could not see any injury. His eyes were shut, but he was still breathing and was a healthy colour. He might have hit his head; she must get him back to the Castle.
He opened his eyes and looked past Tor.
“Hellfire!”
She leaped to her feet and spun round, feeling for her weapons. Five men were nearly upon her, reaching for her, and as she drew her sword one of them grabbed her wrist and jerked her off balance. Tor fell to one knee, yanking her wrist from his grasp. She leaped up, and in a flash her sword thrust pierced his light armour, driving deep into his chest. He slumped to the forest floor, taking the sword with him. Tor struggled to free her weapon. A man jumped on her back, his arm round her throat. Letting go of the hilt, she grabbed the man’s arm, kicked back into his groin and threw him over her shoulder. He crashed into the body on the leaves.
As he got up she jumped backwards and whipped out her dagger. Its black blade sliced the air, keeping the four men at bay. They paused, then began to edge round her. The tree was too far away to shield her back. Spinning, she slashed at a grasping arm; its owner leaped away, clutching at it. She turned and stabbed at a red-bearded man, and felt the dagger pierce his breastplate, but not deep enough…
He swore, and got out a knife. The man who seemed their leader shouted, “He said no weapons!”
Deliberately, Tor raised her dagger so it was pointing upwards, towards their faces. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the boy, who had been watching wide-eyed, suddenly turn and scarper. Then for a few moments all was still. Tor’s eyes went from one man to another, not wanting to be grabbed again from behind. The wind blew through the branches; she could hear the men’s heavy breathing, the distant thrum of a woodpecker, and blood dripping on to dead leaves from one man’s wounded arm.
The leader spoke. “Surrender and you won’t get hurt.”
“I’m not the one who’s hurt so far. Go shag a dragon.”
He looked away. “Get Pirie. Quickly.” The injured man ran off among the trees.
Only three of them, and I’ve got a dagger…The men backed out of reach around her. No good, I’ve got to beat them before reinforcements arrive…
“Scared, are you, without your weapons? Three of you not enough, you need help? Come and get me, you hulking great COWARDS.”
They stared at her but her taunts brought them no nearer.
Time to go.
Tor ran with deadly intent at Red-beard. He flinched aside, and she ran full pelt straight past him into the forest. Sprinting through the undergrowth, jumping over tree roots and dodging round trees, she could hear them crashing after her. If she could get out of their sight, hide, then double back she’d lose them…keep going, weave about… They’d lost her. She stopped to listen. Horses’ hooves thudded. She ran. No chance of outrunning horses. Tiring now…a narrow stream bed, summer-dry, shrubby…lying down she’d be invisible, get her breath back. She threw herself into it and landed on something warm and knobbly that yelled.
It was that boy, the decoy. He must have hidden there. Jumping out, she saw the men had heard him and seen her. She sped away. Five men overtook her and jumped off their horses.
“Spread round him.”
They circled. Tor whirled, her dagger a blur, then her arm was caught and a hand smashed down on her wrist. The dagger spun away from her and disappeared into the dead leaves. The men moved in.
She chopped one across the throat with her arm, and kicked another in the stomach. Red-beard grabbed her from behind, and she hooked a foot round his ankle and shoved. She had only briefly put the others out of action, and now they were back, trying to get hold of her. One grabbed her by the hair, but it was too short for him to maintain his grip. She kicked him in the stomach, and he staggered off doubled-up. The ferocious struggle went on until between the five of them they had wrestled her to the ground. Tor went limp. She was covered in bruises. Blood ran down where somebody’s ring had cut her forehead. The men pulled her to her feet and Pirie went behind to tie her hands. She jabbed him hard in the face with her elbow, and the fight started again.
The men were swearing now.
With a roar, Red-beard ran into her, his weight knocking her off her feet, and Pirie flung himself on top of her. Tor’s mind raced. Nothing she could do. She was pinned down, unable to move. The fight was over. They tied her hands behind her back as she lay there.
Once more the men dragged her upright. All of them were sweating and gasping for breath. They held her none too gently, one on each side.
Red-beard put his face close to hers and spat. She kicked him. His fist clenched and moved back.
“Leave him.”
Red-beard turned to the leader. “Keeler’s dead. This son of a whore killed him.”
“D’you want to end up dead too? I said leave him. Tie Keeler over his horse. Pirie, help him.”
Tor saw the boy again, standing and staring at her. The leader of the gang put something in his hand and told him to clear off. The boy walked slowly away through the forest, looking over his shoulder several times. On his way back, the man picked up Tor’s dagger, looking curiously at it before replacing it and her sword in her belt. Why did he do that?
Then they pulled a black sack over her head and she could see nothing. They are going to kill me – no! I want to live – then she realized that she was being stupid; it was plain they had orders to take her alive. They led her to her horse.
The men helped her on to it without speaking, then mounted their own horses. They set off, Tor inwardly cursing herself for letting them ambush her. The dusty hessian made her sneeze and felt rough against her skin. She hated not being able to see where she was going. It was a simple but effective way of ruling out any attempt at escape. Though she wore her sword belt, she could not reach her weapons.
It disturbed Tor that her capture had evidently been planned – how many days had they waited in the forest for her to ride there alone? On whose orders were they acting, and why had she been singled out? She thought she knew the answers to the last two questions; it was King Skardroft who wanted her, and he wanted her because she was a Knight. If she was right then the outlook was grim.
Skardroft killed Knights, and perhaps he tortured them first.
The horses stopped; a voice shouted, “Make way, there, stand back, let them through,” and Tor was sure they had reached a city gate.
The horses’ hooves rang on cobbles, then on stone. The resounding din of hammers on metal told her they were passing the armourers’ quarter. Then there were hawkers’ cries, the bustle of a market and jostling people, their voices hushed to a mutter when they noticed Tor being led along captive. She imagined them turning to stare, and flushed, humiliated, under the sack. The press diminished, and Tor smelled cut grass and heard birdsong.
They got her off her horse, and led her inside a building. There was a wait while one of them went to fetch something. The sack was taken off her head; they were in a small room in a gatehouse. Pirie had a split and swollen lip, and Red-beard’s eye was closing. The man with the bleeding arm was wrapping a length of cloth round it, wincing. Tor saw they’d got a bowl of water and a cloth. They scrutinized her face. She stared back at them coldly.
“He’s not going to be pleased.”
“It’s not our fault.”
“Just shut up and get the w
orst of the blood off,” their leader said.
Pirie sponged Tor’s face, and replaced the sack. They took hold of her arms again, and walked for some time, going across marble paving, grass with the sound of splashing water from a fountain, more marble, then up flights of stairs and along corridors. Tor concentrated on not tripping. Finally the men spoke to a guard who knocked at a door. They went in, and Tor felt a carpet beneath her feet. The scent of flowers contended with the smell of sacking. The men let go of her arms. Someone walked up to her and pulled off the sack.
She knew at once that the face she was looking into was Skardroft’s.
The first thing Tor noticed was his eyes, which were scanning her face intently. They were shrewd and intelligent under heavy angular eyebrows that were darker than his greying hair and moustache; his trim beard was white. He was about sixty, in reasonable shape, but with the build of one who paid others to do his fighting for him. There was an air of power about him. A man who was used to being obeyed without question.
Tor felt surprised that although formidable, he had humour in his face, and meeting him in other circumstances she would not have immediately thought him a bad character. She had expected him to look more evil, somehow; more like the sort of person who sends soldiers to torch villages.
He frowned. “I said he was not to be harmed.” His voice was deep and authoritative.
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty. He put up a fight, sire. Killed one of us.”
Skardroft glanced at their battered faces and let it pass. “Cut his bonds. Then you may leave us.”
This seemed extraordinary to Tor. They had brought her, a loyalist swordsman, by force into the presence of their King, had not even removed her weapons, and now at his request were setting her free and leaving them alone together. What was going on? The men did as they were told and the door closed behind them, leaving just her and Skardroft.
Tor stretched her stiff arms and flexed her shoulders while she looked around her. She was in a spacious room with a high vaulted ceiling, the stone walls hung with tapestries, the ornamental mouldings picked out with red and blue paint and gold leaf. It was more richly furnished than any room she had ever been in. One wall was entirely covered in shelves of books; the wall opposite had a minstrels’ gallery. Windows showed a terrace that ran the length of the room with flowering trees in pots and a view of the city beyond. There were vases of lilies on stands, and their potent heady scent filled the room.
Skardroft walked over to a polished oak table where a flask of wine, two gold goblets, some white rolls and fruit on a silver dish were laid out ready. “Torbrek, welcome; you must be hungry after your journey. Let me pour you some wine.”
She sat down warily. He knew her name. It was likely he knew she was a Knight. He didn’t know she was not a man, his manner would be different… But why was he being so civil? He handed her a goblet of wine. She ran her fingers over the texture of the stone-set gold, not drinking yet, every sense alert.
“I apologize for the rather unorthodox method of my invitation.”
“Invitation? Is that what you call it?”
He smiled. “Yes, well. I have been anxious to meet you. No doubt you will want to know why.”
But Tor had stopped listening. Her attention was fixed on a display of daggers behind him she had not noticed before. Jewelled black daggers like her own, set out in three incomplete concentric circles, with gaps here and there. There must have been seventy-odd of them. She felt dismay and anger. Each one of those daggers represented a Knight slaughtered by the man in front of her now.
Skardroft followed her gaze. “Ah, the Hundred Knights,” he said softly. “I know you are one of them; I know you carry a black dagger in your belt. The number on it is eighty-eight, is it not, the dagger that was Attalor’s? Curiously, the reason I trust you with my life is because you are a Knight. Your code of honour does not allow you to strike down an unarmed man, particularly one who is your host, however unwilling a guest you may be.”
Tor stood up and looked at him with narrowed eyes, tense as a cat about to spring. “You are not taking my dagger for your despicable collection.”
“Did I say I wanted to? Please, sit down and hear me out.” He waited. After a long moment, Tor resumed her seat. He turned and addressed her, fixing his keen gaze on her. His voice was compelling, but at the same time formal, like someone introducing the main topic of a meeting, or making the opening speech at a trial. “Torbrek, you have allied yourself with a raggle-taggle bunch of mercenaries and opportunists, who seek to destroy my rule and bring the kingdom to chaos. They intend to replace me with the old King, Urquin, who was so weak I was able to overthrow him in the space of a month.”
“Urquin cares about the people. You don’t. He’s the true king. It’s his kingdom.”
Skardroft smiled. “You mean it was seized by his ancestors too long ago for anyone to remember or care about?”
Tor did not reply; she knew little history, but guessed that Skardroft did not share her ignorance. He waited courteously until it was clear she was not going to comment, then continued, “Since I took over, Calambria has been at peace. We are a small country surrounded by powerful neighbours who know better than to attack me. But for Barlanik’s adventure we’d still be peaceful. No doubt he would say his motives are altruistic: that when he has achieved his ends the people will enjoy unprecedented freedom, and a new golden age will begin. He may even believe that is what will happen. But mark my words, there will be – is already – a price to be paid for Barlanik’s attempt to overthrow me. Depending who wins, he may pay, or I may pay, but for a certainty the ordinary people whom you say Urquin cares about will pay. You follow him because you are young and idealistic; it is to your credit; perhaps when I was your age I’d have felt the same. But I want you to reconsider.”
“Reconsider? Your soldiers torched Cramble, then circled it while it burnt, to cut down anyone who tried to leave. Ordinary people paid then, with their lives, on your orders. Nothing you can say changes that. I don’t want to hear your excuses.”
“I had my reasons. No doubt you think me harsh. When I meet opposition I put it down with a heavy hand, I freely admit. I have found it the best way. Experience has taught me that strong rule makes for peace and prosperity. We can agree on wanting that for the kingdom?”
“We don’t agree on anything! I don’t understand! Why have you had me dragged here for some sort of mad political debate? I’m a Knight, I’m your enemy. Why didn’t they cut my throat in the forest and bring you my dagger?” There must be some missing piece of information that would make sense of this conversation. “Why do you care what I think?”
“I care,” said Skardroft, leaning towards her, his piercing eyes staring into hers, “because you are my grandson.”
“No,” said Tor, recoiling, “that’s not true. It can’t be.”
“My only living descendant.”
“You’re lying.”
Skardroft continued, watching Tor’s reaction. “Your mother was a headstrong girl who thought she knew better than I did. She ran away to avoid a betrothal that had been arranged for her, and then she met your father. Her choice was the son of one of the Hundred Knights; my enemies who were doing everything they could to impede my progress.” Skardroft’s face darkened at the memory. He glanced at the black daggers, then returned his gaze to Tor. “I did not find this out until much, much later, when I obtained a part of the Knights’ library, and was able to search their records. Your mother was long dead by then. Only very recently did I come to know of your existence, and even then I did not know you were my grandchild. But now that I do, I want us to become better acquainted.”
“No. Let me go.”
“Be reasonable, Torbrek. I won’t do that. I have gone to some trouble to get you here. Don’t fight me on this. I seldom ask favours of people, but I am asking you now to keep an open mind during your stay here, that is all. Let us get to know each other. You will be a most welcome guest.
”
“Use the right word – prisoner.”
Skardroft paused. “You are here now, so why not make the best of it? It will be a new experience; you may find it educational after your narrow upbringing…” Seeing her quick frown he added, “Attalor was an excellent man, I know, and did his best by you, but the only life you have known has been an impoverished one in a remote village. Limited opinions, opportunities, money. It is time to widen your horizons.”
Tor was staggered by his arrogance. “I cannot believe you are doing this. You seem to think that being my grandfather gives you the right to interfere in my life, to kidnap me and tell me what to do. I have managed very well without you for eighteen years.”
Skardroft smiled at her with considerable charm. “I don’t doubt it; nobody meeting you could wish you to be other than you are. You are a credit to Attalor. But Attalor is dead. I’d like to be a grandfather to you in my turn.”
“And my feelings about the matter carry no weight?”
“I hope to change those feelings.”
Tor was lost for words. Nothing she said seemed to make the slightest difference to this man. Skardroft got up and rang a bell.
“Take Torbrek to his apartments,” he said to the two guards who appeared. He turned to Tor. “You will dine with me this evening. They will come to show you the way when it is time.”
He walked with her to the door, clapped her on the shoulder, and nodded to the guards to take her away.
CHAPTER 9
Kallarven Castle
Stavely was the first to notice Tor’s absence. Tor was never late for sword drill, and as often as not was the first to arrive. He sent to check at the Dragon Tower. The soldier came back saying Tor was not there, and Xantilor had not seen him that morning either. Stavely thought this odd, and alerted Kerris.
Torbrek...and the Dragon Variation (The Torbrek Trilogy) Page 7
