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

by Lexi Revellian

  “Ah,” said Pom. “I’m not on my own. I’ve got Princess Gwenderith with me.” He told Quintern how they came to be together in Atherly Berrow.

  “She’d better come with us,” said Quintern. “You can’t leave her here, and it wouldn’t be safe for her to travel to Garock Holt on her own. Only tell her what you have to, though.”

  They had arrived where Quintern was staying, an ancient inn whose creaking sign said The Black Swan. Though no more than a few streets away from The Unicorn and Maiden, it was in an even worse area. It looked run down, dark and dismal, its dim lights flickering through bleary windows, and the street was neglected and weed-grown. Pom saw a rat scuttle along the corner of the building and disappear into its hole. A big mangy dog, chained to the inn wall, grunted and twitched in its sleep. A depressing place; ill omened. Pom shivered.

  “One good thing, a boy like you can run about without anyone taking notice.” Pom thought the day had proved otherwise, but he did not say anything because he was going to be really careful in future. “Come here at noon tomorrow. I should know by then if Parrelor’s finished. If he has, we’ll collect the Princess, go to the shop, get the saddle and get away from here.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You don’t need to know that.”

  “How will we travel?”

  “Parrelor’s arranging a horse and cart. Meanwhile, stay inside, it’s safer. Don’t talk to anyone. See you tomorrow, Pom.”

  Back at the Unicorn and Maiden, Pom knocked softly on Gwenderith’s door. She let him in, looking relieved. She had been sitting up for him by the light of a single candle, imagining the worst and hugging Muffin for company. “What happened? Are you all right?”

  “Yes, it’s good news. I can’t tell you much, because I’ve been told not to; but tomorrow I’m going to meet a man at noon, and if things are okay we’ll come here and collect you to go somewhere else, so be ready to leave the moment I come back.”

  Gwenderith considered this uninformative statement, and went straight to the heart of it. “Is this man a Knight?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  She guessed he probably was. Pom was full of suppressed excitement; elated, and trying not to show it. “That’s good, Pom. You ought to get to bed now, it’s late.”

  “Don’t fuss, I’m going. We’ll stay here in the inn till I have to go, it’s safer.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Gwenderith acts

  Shortly before noon the next day, Pom left his inn and walked by the back streets to the Black Swan. It looked even more desolate in the sunshine; the crumbling stonework had weeds growing out of it, there were green damp stains on the walls, and cracks in the grimy windows. Today the mad-looking dog chained outside was awake, and nearly choked himself trying to get at Pom, barking savagely at him, teeth bared. Pom felt sorry for him, but decided patting him would not be a good idea. The dog’s presence made a discreet entry to the inn impossible, but the place at first seemed deserted. No one appeared to ask his business. He passed a slatternly girl carrying a tray of tankards, who ignored him in case he wanted anything. Pom walked up the stairs, which had a disagreeable smell of neglect and decay.

  Quintern came out to meet him, looking extra alive and vital against his dreary surroundings, and showed Pom into his room, which was large with bare dusty floorboards. The sun shone in through a big window that was streaked where the rain had run down it over the years from a faulty gutter. There was a sagging bed, a table, and two chairs (one with a broken back). The remains of a meal on a tray littered the table, beside a pack of cards laid out for solitaire. Quintern was packing his bag, talking while he did so.

  “Parrelor’s sent to say he’s almost finished the saddle, and about time too. He was working most of the night. We’ll wait here for an hour, and by then it should be ready. He’s going to pack it into a cart under a load of timber, and we just have to hope the border guards aren’t too thorough and search it.”

  “What if they do?”

  Quintern gave a glinting grin and shook back his mane of hair. “Then we have a fight on our hands. There’s only a dozen or so of them at the point we’re going to cross.” He made this sound a perfectly reasonable number for one Knight to deal with, aided by a twelve-year-old and a Princess.

  “Right.”

  Quintern had finished his packing, and turned to Pom. “What shall we do while we wait? Do you want to play cards?”

  “Okay. You could tell me about the Knights while we play.”

  “I’ll do that gladly once we’re safely out of this town, but not yet. You can tell me more about Tor instead. What does she look like?”

  Quintern was rather taken with the idea of a female Knight, Pom could tell. He tried to describe her while Quintern shuffled and dealt the cards. “Well, she’s got fairish sort of wavy hair, quite short, and she wears men’s clothes, but nice ones, they suit her.”

  “Is she pretty?”

  Pom considered. He’d never thought about it. “Yes, but in sort of a different way. She’s not like Gwenderith, with everyone staring at her all the time. She’s got nice eyes. Though she can look quite frightening when she’s cross.”

  They picked up their hands. “How did her dragon come to choose her?”

  Pom knew the answer to this, because Xantilor had talked to him about it when Tor wasn’t there. “He said he just knew as soon as he saw her. He said dragons never get it wrong, though men often think they have, and get annoyed about it if they think the dragon should have chosen someone else. Dragons have an insight that men lack,” Pom quoted.

  “Hmm, interesting,” said Quintern. “So is the dragon – what’s it called?”

  “Xantilor.”

  “Is Xantilor quite amenable, does he do what Tor tells him?”

  “Yes, mostly he does, except sometimes he gets an idea in his head and you can’t budge him. It makes Tor mad. Like when I turned up, he kept letting me in to the Dragon Tower because he liked me, though Tor said not to. But in the end, you see, he was right because Tor got to like me too.”

  Quintern laughed. “Supposing you had...” he broke off.

  Outside, the dog was going berserk again. Quintern put his cards down, got up and glanced out of the window. He stopped moving. Pom joined him. Quintern put out an arm to keep him at the edge of the window where he could not be seen. The narrow dingy street was full of the crimson and black of Skardroft’s soldiers. Pom’s heart speeded up and he breathed faster. Quintern left the room for a moment, then returned.

  “They’re round the back, too.”

  He went swiftly over to his bag, and began to get things out again, talking to Pom at the same time. “You’ll have to take the cart on your own. You can do it for me, can’t you, Pom?” He took out some armour and quickly began to buckle on his breastplate. “Take it to High Lyden, then north of there five miles towards the mountains. The border post is half a mile outside the town. There’s just one track, you can’t miss it. Remember the name, High Lyden. Ask Parrelor for a map to look it up on, but don’t tell him where you’re going.”

  He put on his sword belt, unsheathed his dagger and gave it to Pom. “Here, you can have this.” Pom stuck it in his belt. Quintern felt at the bottom of the bag and got out his black dagger from its hiding place. “You’ll be met, they’ll be waiting there.” A thought occurred to him. “Approach Parrelor’s shop with caution, just in case they are on to him too. If they are, forget the saddle and take the Princess where I told you.”

  “Let me stay and fight with you.”

  Quintern’s warm brown eyes looked at Pom and he smiled. “I will not rob Tor of her squire. You’re too young to throw your life away. You will make a fine Knight one day, Pom, but now you’ve got to go. Besides, I need you to take the saddle.”

  “But you can’t fight them all alone.”

  “I’ve never wanted to die in my bed.” He took all the money out of his pocket and put it into Pom’s hands. It seemed a lo
t to Pom; there were gold pieces amongst the other coins.

  “I can’t take this.”

  “Don’t argue, there isn’t time.”

  Quintern’s preparations were nearly complete. Armed, he looked formidable. He put the plates, bottle and wine cup from the table on to the tray, and handed it to Pom, draping the napkin over his arm.

  “Take that down to the kitchen as though you’re a scullion, go out the back way and keep going. Good luck, Pom.”

  Pom walked to the door, and turned to say goodbye. Quintern was haloed by the sunlight from the window and his assailants would have it in their eyes. He had drawn his sword; the blade flashed as he sliced the air to see how much room he had; his black dagger was in his left hand, and the light of battle in his eyes. He looked much younger than his years.

  “Goodbye, Quintern. Good luck.”

  Pom stumbled numbly down the stairs, and as he got to the bottom, a file of soldiers pushed passed him on their way up. They did not look twice at him. He went through the empty kitchen, putting down his tray, and on through the scullery to the open back door. More troops were waiting outside. As he walked down the road in the sunshine, he thought he could hear the clash of steel on steel behind the crazed barking of the dog and the shouted orders of the officers. Pom turned the corner, and heard a belated, “Hey, you!”

  He ran.

  Gwenderith was waiting for Pom. He should arrive any moment. Muffin was in her arms, and she was ready to go immediately. She went to the sunny window, though it had no view of the street, just roofs. A small sound made her turn, and there was a man in the room. He was tall and thin, slightly stooped, and wore dark clothes. He looked around the room unsmiling, then at her.

  “Where’s the boy?” he said in a low voice.

  “Who are you? Please leave at once.” He stepped towards her. She felt frightened. “Go or I’ll scream.”

  He moved closer and in a sudden movement plucked Muffin from her arms. Looking her in the eye, he pinched a fold of the dog’s skin and twisted it. Muffin yelped and trembled. Gwenderith felt sick.

  “You won’t scream, Princess. You are going to tell me where you plan to go when you leave here. You are going to tell me where the last of the Hundred Knights are.”

  “I don’t know.” Muffin yelped again and howled and scrabbled to get away. “Stop, please, I don’t know, how can I tell you if I don’t know?” Gwenderith was crying. “Leave him alone, I’d tell you if I knew, please!”

  The man looked at her and accepted what she said. He knew girls like her; soft as butter. She wouldn’t be giving him any trouble. “The boy knows, then. We’ll wait for him here, quietly, till he comes. I’ll keep hold of the dog. Don’t think of calling out a warning, I’ll strangle the dog if you do.” He slid his fingers under Muffin’s jewelled collar and turned his hand so that it tightened round his throat.

  Tears ran down Gwenderith’s face. She felt completely helpless – what could she do against this terrible man, how could she warn Pom? He would arrive at any minute and she couldn’t think of anything to do. Should she shout a warning, even if it meant Muffin’s death, to save Pom? She was fairly sure that Pom would come in anyway to rescue her, and Muffin would have died for nothing. What could she do? How useless she was, no good to anyone. She couldn’t even protect Muffin. Now she could hear Pom’s light footsteps sprinting up the stairs. It was too late to do anything. The man stood behind the door as he came in.

  “What’s the matter?” Pom started to say, and the man dropped Muffin, kicked the door shut and grabbed hold of Pom.

  He bent Pom’s arm up behind his back till Pom was leaning forwards. Pom reached left-handed for Quintern’s dagger, but Corfe got to it first and put it in his belt beside his own. “Where are the Knights, boy?” Pom said nothing. The man pulled his arm back further. Pom was silent, gritting his teeth. “There’s no hurry, you’ll tell me in the end. Take your time…”

  Pom’s face was white and he was beginning to sweat, but his jaw was set and his expression stubborn. He wasn’t saying anything. Gwenderith bit her knuckle. Muffin pawed at her dress but she did not notice him. Watching Pom suffer was agonizing. She should have shouted a warning, she might have saved him. How stupid she was. There must be something she could do now to raise the alarm and get help. The man was paying her no attention, but he was between her and the door. He would stop her if she made for it. There was no one else staying on the top floor, or the one below. The owner of the inn would be in the kitchen near the front door.

  The man put more pressure on Pom’s arm. “When the bone breaks, we’ll move on to your other arm. What are the Knights planning, boy?”

  Pom kicked out behind him, but missed the man’s legs, lost his footing and ended up on the floor, the man crouched over him, his knee in Pom’s back. There was a long pause, broken only by the odd smothered gasp from Pom. Sun streamed through the window, and sparrows twittered on the roof. Gwenderith could not see Pom’s face any more, only the man’s back.

  “Tell me where the Knights are. I’ve only just begun, I can keep this up for hours, till you’ll wish you were dead.” Corfe’s voice was nearly a whisper now. “But I won’t let you die, you won’t get away that easily. Just a few words from you, that’s all I want, and the pain will stop. Give me a name, boy. Who is it you’ve been meeting?”

  Pom said nothing. Gwenderith wrung her hands. If Pom didn’t tell the man what he wanted to know, what would happen? Would he kill him? Or hurt him so badly he’d never recover? If she knew where the Knights were, she’d have told him by now, to spare Pom. Corfe jerked Pom’s arm, and Pom stifled a cry, but gave no sign of capitulation.

  The man looked over his shoulder and his cold, calculating eyes ran over her face. Although she had no idea what was going through his mind, she felt certain that awful though things were, they were about to get worse. An icy shiver ran down her spine. She shrank back into the corner made by the table, chair and window, a small inarticulate sound of terror escaping her.

  At this Muffin ran at Corfe yapping furiously. With his free hand Corfe seized the little dog’s leg and hurled him across the room where he smacked into the wall and fell to the floor. Corfe turned his attention back to Pom, and drew a length of cord from his pocket.

  Under intolerable stress some barrier gave way deep in Gwenderith’s mind. She grasped the chair, lifted it as she stepped forward, and smashed it over Corfe’s head with all her strength. He did not fall immediately, so she hit him again as hard as she could, and this time he crumpled on to the floorboards and didn’t move.

  Gwenderith put the chair, now with one leg off, back tidily under the table, propping it up so it would stand. Pom got to his feet. His face was gaunt and his eyes looked different. Muffin limped over to Gwenderith, and she picked him up and stroked his quivering body. Against her will, her eyes were drawn to Corfe’s dark shape. Her tears dried.

  Pom looked at Gwenderith as though he was seeing her for the first time. He bent over Corfe and retrieved Quintern’s dagger. He winced as he moved his arm.

  “Is he dead?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t care, either. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Where’s the man you told me about?”

  “He won’t be coming after all.” Pom thought of Quintern outlined in light, sword and dagger drawn to make his last stand alone. He had liked Quintern a lot. “We’ll be going on our own.”

  Pom went and got his small bag of possessions from the next room. When he came back, Gwenderith had not moved. She seemed rooted to the spot, wide-eyed, transfixed by the sight of Corfe’s huddled body lying there. He took her hand with his good one, and drew her towards the stairs. He remembered to find the landlady in the kitchen on the way out and pay her for their stay. Outside, on the way to the Dragon Loriner’s, they remained hand in hand for comfort, though Pom ordinarily would have disdained it. He had just endured the worst five minutes of his life so far.

  Pom made Gwenderit
h wait round the corner from the Dragon Loriner’s while he checked it out. The shop looked normal; sleepy and peaceful in the afternoon sun. He went round the back, and there was a horse and cart piled high with timber, and Parrelor securing it with rope. He looked up as Pom arrived.

  “Where’s Quintern?”

  “The soldiers came to his inn. He told me to take the cart on my own.”

  Parrelor stopped what he was doing. “A lot of soldiers?”

  Pom nodded.

  “He stayed to fight them?”

  Pom nodded again. There was a lump in his throat and he couldn’t speak.

  Parrelor waited a moment. “He won’t be coming?”

  Pom shook his head. “No,” he said, and turned away to hide his tears.

  Gwenderith appeared in the courtyard looking anxious, and went up to Pom and put an arm round him. Parrelor said, after a distracted glance at Gwenderith and Muffin, “I think you’d better get away from here as quickly as you can. It would be bad for all of us if they find you here. The saddle’s packed in the middle of the load. There’s hay for the horse in that sack, and a bucket for his water.” A thought struck him. “Have you got any food?”

  “No, we didn’t think of it,” said Gwenderith.

  “Do you know where you’re going?”

  Pom said, “Quintern told me to ask you if I could look at a map.”

  Parrelor disappeared at once into the shop, while they climbed on to the cart, and returned with a rolled-up map. “Here, take it with you. There’s some food in here, and this is for you, Pom.”

  He put a bag and a package beside Pom on the seat. Taking hold of the horse’s head collar, he led him through the archway, then stood back, and Pom shook up the reins.

  “Take care,” Parrelor said. He watched them till they turned the corner and were out of sight, and then went back to his shop to make sure there were no traces left of the dragon saddle. He very much hoped the soldiers would not come to get him.