Torbrek...and the Dragon Variation (The Torbrek Trilogy)

by Lexi Revellian

  Tor spoke her mind. “I think if anyone can do it, Barlanik can.”

  Skardroft sat up, immediately alert. He did not like the admiration in his grandson’s voice. It had not occurred to him that Torbrek’s loyalty might be personal, to the rebel leader as much as to the rebel cause. “Do you know the man?” he asked.

  Something in his tone put Tor on her guard. “I’ve only met him once or twice.”

  Skardroft’s astute gaze was on her. Could he tell she was lying? She felt herself blush, and looked away. Skardroft scowled. Barlanik was one of the last of the Hundred Knights, and a young one too; the leader of the rebellion, and now, it appeared, a hero to his grandson. It was high time his black dagger joined the others on the wall.

  With an effort, Skardroft assumed his former relaxed manner, and reached for a nectarine. “Well, neither of us knows what the future holds. But I’m serious in wanting you to join me. Don’t give me an answer now. Think it over.”

  Tor kept silent. She would not lie to him again. If they had met before Cramble was burnt, before she had joined the army fighting against him, she would most likely have accepted the home he offered her. He was her only living relative, he cared about her, and she, to her own surprise, was starting to like him. But it was too late. There was the matter of her annihilated village, the murdered villagers and the butchered Knights.

  Tor had finished eating and looked idly about her. Nearby, her dapple-grey and Skardroft’s big black horse cropped the short rabbit-bitten grass; she could hear the creak of the harness and the clink of their bits. A little way off the guards were laughing. Her grandfather ate his nectarine, trying to keep the juice off his clothes. It occurred to her there might never be another opportunity as good as this, and she acted at once on the thought.

  She leaped to her feet, ran to her horse and jumped on to its back. Whisper’s head went up in surprise; she kicked the mare to a gallop, crouching low on her neck to reduce wind resistance, heading straight down the series of glades that led away from the direction of Tarragon. Behind her she heard Skardroft shouting, and a commotion as they all scrambled on to their horses and after her. Tor reckoned her chances fair; she had a start on them, and Whisper was a good horse carrying less weight than any of her pursuers’ mounts. Also, she knew Skardroft would not let them shoot their longbows at her, so it did not matter that she was in bowshot and they could still see her; she could take advantage of the open ground to go at maximum speed. Once she was out of their sight, she planned to veer into the forest where they would never find her.

  She looked quickly over her shoulder. They were some way behind, and her lead was steadily increasing. She had never gone all out on this horse before, and she realized it was the fastest she had ever ridden. The ground below her was a blur of green as she raced over it. A grin of triumph spread over her face. Freedom was just around the corner.

  At this moment Whisper’s front hoof went into a rabbit hole and the horse crashed sideways to the ground. Tor flew in an arc over her head and slammed on to the rough turf, losing her grip on the reins as the breath was knocked out of her. She and the horse both struggled to their feet. Too late. Tor’s tenuous advantage was lost and a ring of guards surrounded her, Skardroft among them. He dismounted and came up to her, while one of his men went to catch her horse.

  Skardroft saw at a glance she was unharmed but winded, her chest heaving. He stood over her and spoke reprovingly. “Torbrek, I’m surprised at you. That was rash and ill conceived: you had no chance of getting away. You might have broken your neck.”

  Baulked and ruffled, like a bating hawk lifted back on to the falconer’s glove, Tor glared at him. “I nearly made it – I would have done if Whisper hadn’t tripped and fallen.” She paused, breathless but defiant. “That was the only reason you caught me, just bad luck. It wasn’t rash; I knew you wouldn’t let them shoot me.”

  The guard had got hold of Whisper and led her up. She was breathing hard, tossing her head and showing the whites of her eyes, but apart from this edginess was none the worse for her fall, Tor saw with relief. The King took the reins and motioned the man to move away, gently stroking the mare’s sweating neck to calm her. He shook his head at Torbrek’s simplicity. “You’re right, I wouldn’t have let them shoot at you. I’d have told them to shoot the horse.”

  Tor looked at him, shocked. Such an idea had not crossed her mind. She took the reins from his hand.

  “So you see, you would not have escaped. It would have been a pity though; I got you the best horse in Tarragon. Lunch seems to be over. Shall we continue with the falconry?”

  CHAPTER 13

  A game of chess

  Tor’s bid for freedom did not stop Skardroft taking her out somewhere each day after that; hawking, hunting, or sometimes just riding through the forest. It had been years since he had ridden out so regularly, and he had forgotten how much he enjoyed it – feeling the blood tingle in his veins after a gallop, the healthy ache in his muscles from unaccustomed exercise, and a sound night’s sleep every night. He could not remember the last time he had had a break from the daily running of Calambria; why should he not take some time off now? What was the point of being King, if you were chained to the daily grind like a clerk?

  Torbrek was such good company, too; he could really talk to him and he was so genuine – he let you know soon enough if he disagreed with you, or if something was of no interest. Skardroft found he liked this once he had got used to it. Most people tried to keep in with him, or get something out of him, and Torbrek was not like that at all.

  For Tor it was a relief to be out of her rooms, though she did miss Jervaid. She noticed how sullenly the crowds watched the King, who was always surrounded by quantities of armed guards, as he passed through the city; how they drew back and fell silent at the sight of him. Outside Tarragon’s walls, for the first time in her life she saw pallid skinny children, shoeless and in rags, scrabbling in the middens. Defeated-looking men and women sat on street corners, begging for alms. Working people hurried past without looking. Barlanik had told her the citizens were heavily taxed, to pay for Skardroft’s enormous army that was used to maintain his grip on the kingdom, and crush any hint of dissent. It was obvious the common people hated and feared him. She felt they would throw things at him if they dared.

  This was confusing and unsettling. It was difficult to reconcile the two Skardrofts; her grandfather whose company she now enjoyed, who could be charming when he wanted, with the tyrant whose very presence made his subjects surly and resentful. Surely it would not be too hard for him to make himself less unpopular?

  She tried discussing the subject with him one evening over a game of chess in his state room. It was a sultry, stormy night and the candelabra were lit, their soft flames wavering. The open doors to the terrace showed an extraordinary deep slate-blue sky, and gold tops to the trees.

  Tor loved Skardroft’s chess set. The pieces were old, smoothed by generations of players’ fingers; they were carved from whales’ teeth, depicting quaint fierce warriors of an earlier era. She never tired of looking at them, ambassadors of a forgotten time and place, with their anxious intent expressions and their archaic armour.

  She and Skardroft played chess most evenings here or in her rooms. He was hoping with practice to improve her game. Tor was the only person he played with that he knew would not deliberately lose to him, so it seemed a pity he invariably beat her.

  “Now I want you to concentrate this time, Torbrek; you’re improving, but you need to give your mind to it,” he said as they set up the pieces.

  “I’ll try, but it gets boring when there are long gaps between moves.”

  “You have to give yourself time to think. You’re too impatient.”

  “I’ll never be as good as you.”

  “Why not? You’re bright enough. You’ll beat me one day.”

  Not yet though; tonight Skardroft was already winning as usual. He had moved his black pawns to an attack formation that
made Tor think of a dragon’s curving outline. Her mind, contrary to his instructions, wandered to her earlier thoughts about his unpopularity with his subjects. “Why don’t you do something about the poor? Surely you’ve got gold enough to spare some for people with nothing?”

  He smiled as if she had said something quaint. “Torbrek, when you are older you will realize that the poor are always with us. The able and ambitious prosper, the weak fail; that is how it has always been, and always will be.”

  “Perhaps it is, but some of them don’t have a chance – the children, for instance.”

  “The best of them will make something of themselves, as I did. For the rest, they are like the slow deer that the wolf catches. One may pity the individual deer, but the herd grows stronger and faster. It’s your move.”

  “Then what about having a fairer system? Would it be so bad an idea to give the people a say in how they’re ruled?” Tor asked, moving her Bishop to pin the black Bishop, planning to take the black Knight. She checked the board carefully before letting go. It seemed a good move…clever, even.

  Skardroft leaned back and raised his eyebrows at her, absently moving his Knight out of danger. “You think that would make them happy?”

  “Well, happier, I expect.”

  “I doubt it. No two people have the same opinions; popular rule means the most stupid having as loud a voice as the most intelligent; infinite compromise, with no one getting what he wants, and everyone blaming everyone else. No one is quite as frustrated and powerless as a voter in a democracy. He’s been told he’s in control, when plainly he isn’t. At least in a tyranny, one person’s happy: the tyrant.” She saw he was laughing at her. “Are you sure you want to do that with your queen?”

  “Oh.” Tor moved her piece back (no wonder the queen had an aghast expression, one hand to her face) and moved a pawn instead. “All right, so I don’t know anything about politics, but it would be fairer.”

  “Fairer, possibly; less efficient, certainly. I can decide on something, and make it happen that same day, where a democracy would still be talking about it a year later, with everyone getting sick of the subject. I don’t suppose Barlanik runs his army on democratic lines. You, I know, have your own ideas as to how affairs should be run. Would you really like to have to persuade dozens of inferior minds to see things your way, before progress could be made? Wouldn’t you rather have the power to make your vision real?” Skardroft’s Knight threatened her Queen.

  “Yes, but it’s not right…” Tor felt unequal to this discussion. Politics did not interest her; she had given them no thought at all until very recently. She could not blame Skardroft for not taking her ideas seriously, when they were so ill thought out. He made her feel callow and inexperienced, though she remained quite certain he was wrong. Tor moved her Queen out of danger. Thunder rumbled in the distance. She took off her jacket and slung it over the back of her chair.

  “Also consider that any government, even an elected one, spends other people’s money, so inevitably becomes profligate. They happily buy extravagant inessentials no one would ever squander his own money on.” He smiled silkily. “Whereas my subjects’ taxes become my money, and I spend it judiciously for that reason.” Tor looked at him; she was not sure whether he meant it or was teasing her. Perhaps both. Skardroft focused on the chessboard, then glanced up at her again. “Or is this about something else?” he said. “Perhaps you think I should court popularity by giving the people a vote? Make them like me a little better?”

  “What’s wrong with being popular?”

  “I prefer the freedom that comes with not needing to be liked, not caring what people think of you. Naturally, you have to be in a position where others’ opinions don’t matter. Luckily, I am. There’s a lot to be said for being feared instead.”

  “Except it means you can’t get a decent game of chess.”

  “There you have me, Torbrek. I concede that point. But when you learn to play a little better, the problem will be resolved.”

  “For as long as I’m here.”

  “While you are here, yes. You know, Attalor had an estate outside Tarragon, with a good house; it’s still there, it’s yours by rights. You could move into it. You wouldn’t have to stay in the palace.”

  “Who’s living there now?”

  “That is of no importance. I can have it ready for you in days.”

  “Thank you,” Tor said, a very slight ironic edge to her voice. It seemed she would only get her inheritance on Skardroft’s terms. The game was going badly for her; she couldn’t see how she had got into such an awkward position so quickly. Every move she considered led to disaster. Her hand hovered over the pieces, undecided. She looked up at Skardroft. “How did you do that?”

  “It’s called the Dragon Variation.”

  Tor wanted to keep off the subject of dragons, so she moved a Knight at random and said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you, why do you hate the Hundred Knights?”

  He raised his eyes from the chessboard. “I don’t hate them – how can I, you are a Knight, I was one myself.”

  Tor could not believe she had heard him right. “You were a Knight?”

  He smiled at her astonished expression. “Yes. The central black dagger in the display on the wall, that is my own. It is the first dagger I put there, to mark my change of allegiance.” They both looked up at the broken circles of black daggers darkly sparkling in the candlelight, Tor with the acute sense of disquiet they always gave her. Lightning lit the room for a second, and there was an immediate crash of thunder. “I swallowed everything I was taught when I was a squire, a long time ago, even at first when I became a Knight. ‘Truth unto Death’ – what does that mean, anyway? I got older, I got sceptical; I went my own way in the end. I was ambitious, young and ruthless. They did not like what I did, and began their attempts to frustrate me. They had to be dealt with. But there’s no hatred, on my side at least.”

  “Why doesn’t anyone know you were a Knight?”

  He smiled again. “Almost everyone who knew is dead, or in hiding, I would say. And the subject doesn’t often come up.”

  Tor was speechless; then all at once she had so much to say she did not know where to start. He was much worse than she had thought, even. He had betrayed his friends, hunted them down and murdered them. How could he be so calm about it, smile about it? “So, these Knights you killed – they were men you knew, men you’d trained with? Your friends?”

  “Some of them, yes.”

  “And because of that, you must have known where to find them…how could you do that?”

  “A Knight is not easy to kill, however well you know him.”

  “What about the squires, were they easy to kill?”

  “Torbrek, you are one of the Hundred; you know a squire’s place is beside his Knight. Would you have run away when Attalor was fighting for his life, or fought and died alongside him? And if he was killed without you, would you not have completed your training with one aim in mind, that of avenging his death? No, I did not insult the squires by sparing their lives, as though they were mere boys, of no account.”

  This much was true, Tor knew; if they’d caught up with Attalor, killed him but not Tor because she was a child, her fury would not have let her rest until she had had her revenge, even if it took years to accomplish. “But you were a traitor to the Knights…”

  “I was chosen when I was ten.” Skardroft’s voice was hard. “A Knight caught me thieving, and offered to train me. It gave me the chance to escape my home; I didn’t think twice; I grasped the opportunity with both hands. Is it surprising that twenty years later I thought differently? That is a risk they take. With me, they chose wrongly, to their ultimate cost.”

  Tor could hear a deep hidden anger running behind his words, and was silenced. She thought of the boy he had been, unloved, feral, shifting for himself, stealing to survive. The Knight who took him on must have recognized his intellect and capacity, and believed in his potential for good, bu
t it had been too late. Tor felt a helpless compassion for her grandfather.

  He said more calmly, as though in summary, “I respect the Knights. It is a pity they got in my way. I don’t know why I’m telling you about my childhood; I haven’t spoken of it to anyone for years.”

  I’ve got to get out of here, Tor thought. It began to rain violently, pounding and splashing on the terrace. Cooler air eddied into the room. Skardroft concentrated once more on the chessboard. He sighed, and made his move. “Checkmate.”

  Tor spent every spare moment – and there were many – trying to work out an escape plan. It should be easier now she was not locked up all the time, but actually there were no more opportunities than before. Skardroft was always by her side, for a start, and then the new guards, she noticed, were extremely vigilant. She suspected that Skardroft had told them that if his grandson escaped they would pay for it with their lives.

  She toyed with a scheme of killing a guard and disguising herself in his uniform in order to bluff her way out, but on reflection the Palace Guard were chosen to be imposing, and none of them was under six feet tall. Disguised as a guard she would fool nobody.

  The weeks went by, and although Tor did not accept her current situation, she became accustomed to it. Kallarven Castle seemed far away.

  Tor had been in Tarragon the best part of a month; it was evening, and the taciturn guards (who, unlike the men they replaced, had never got friendly) escorted her to Skardroft’s door. It would be nice, she thought, to go somewhere unattended now and then.

  Skardroft came to greet her and ushered her in. “Ah, Torbrek, I have something for you.”

  A gift from her grandfather was nothing new. He liked to give her things, as though each one tied her more strongly to Tarragon and him. She now had her own gold goblet, made by the court silversmith, with her name in rubies, a signet ring set with Skardroft’s falcon crest, and a new hunting knife much finer than her old functional one, its handle engraved with stags. Tor made no difficulties about accepting these; she would not be taking them with her when she left.