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

by Lexi Revellian

  “You wouldn’t look too bad if you dressed properly, you know…and did something about your hair. Nothing wrong with your figure. You could be quite eye-catching. No man’s going to look at you got up like that, though.”

  Farren thought it was time to intervene. “Edric, you are being offensive. You have said enough.”

  “It’s okay, Farren,” said Tor. “It doesn’t matter…”

  I don’t care what he thinks because he’s a prat. She just managed not to say it out loud. In fact she had not cut her hair since her return from Tarragon, but it still curled about her neck and had not yet reached her shoulders. She glanced over at Gwenderith again, the epitome of feminine beauty. Barlanik was listening gravely to her, and then she said something that made them both smile. Edric turned his attention to Farren.

  “Don’t tell me you fancy Tor looking like that?” He laughed. “You must have peculiar taste, or be pretty desperate. Didn’t the Knights have any women in their hideaway?”

  Farren shook back his hair and leaped to his feet, and for a moment Tor was certain he was going to hit Edric; then she could see him think it would cause a scene and spoil the dinner, and he sat down again. Barlanik and Gwenderith were now looking in their direction, and two tables away Kerris was watching them with lively interest.

  “Think yourself lucky to have the protection of the occasion,” said Farren levelly, “and don’t push your luck.”

  Edric was certainly not going to be told what to do by Farren. “You Knights are all the same, you think just because…” Suddenly Gwenderith was by his side putting her hand on his arm.

  “Edric, would you be a dear and come and sit by me? There is something I particularly want to ask you about.”

  He let her lead him away to the other table. She smiled apologetically over her shoulder at Farren.

  “Is he always like that?” Farren asked.

  “Yes, he’s always a prat,” said Tor.

  “You’d never think he was her brother.” Farren shook his head wonderingly. “And he’ll be King one day.”

  Edric drew up a chair beside Gwenderith. Barlanik decided, reluctantly, that it would not be acceptable for him to leave the head of the table and take Edric’s seat next to Tor. He might get a word with her after dinner. Meanwhile, Gwenderith had asked Edric some question about his troop arrangements, and Edric was holding forth in excessive detail, clearly thinking that Barlanik could learn a thing or two from him.

  When the meal ended, and people began to move into the adjacent room to carry on drinking and talking, Edric was still going on. Barlanik did not want to snub him in front of Gwenderith, particularly after she had acted so effectively to prevent a scene, so had to watch as Tor and Farren left without him. Kerris joined them in the doorway.

  “What was Prince Charmless saying to you?” Kerris asked Farren. “I thought you were going to clock him one. Hoped, really.”

  Farren laughed and Tor said, “He was giving me advice on what the well-dressed woman is wearing this year. Apparently it’s not britches.”

  “He’s unbelievable. Thinks he’s the dragon’s bollocks.”

  “Dragons are reptiles, they don’t have any – ”

  “Don’t be pedantic, Tor, you know what I mean. I’ve never met anyone so bloody smug. D’you know what he said to Haskell? He said he was glad he’s not a Knight as the training made them hidebound and inflexible. He hasn’t got a clue, he just goes round putting people’s backs up. I heard him tell Stavely all our soldiers are using the wrong length sword. You know that look Stavely gives you when you’ve just made a complete cock-up of a move? Edric didn’t even notice, thought he’d done him a favour pointing it out. I think it’s just a question of who decks him first. We ought to run a book on it.”

  Farren said, “Where’s Barlanik going to put him in the attack on Tarragon?”

  “Well away from my unit, I hope. Seriously, Barlanik’s worried he won’t do what he’s told.”

  “Has he said anything about turning up too late to help raise the siege?”

  “His line is, he knew Barlanik could manage without him, and he was shown to be right in the event. Come and have a drink.”

  Meanwhile, Barlanik had ruthlessly offloaded Edric on to Drewitt, and he and Gwenderith were making their way through the crowded room towards Tor’s group.

  Cassarian spotted him. “Barlanik. Just the man I wanted to talk to.”

  Gwenderith smiled and continued towards Farren, while Barlanik resigned himself to duty before pleasure. Perhaps he would see Tor tomorrow. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that Edric had got away from Drewitt – or possibly vice-versa – and was heading purposefully towards Tor and Farren once more, drink in hand. Kerris would have to cope with him.

  The following day Xantilor waited until Tor was going to be out of the Dragon Tower for an hour, then he sent Pom with a message to ask Barlanik if he would come and see him. The dragon had never done this before, so although he was busy preparing for the attack on Tarragon Barlanik went at once, thinking it must be important.

  Xantilor began, “It’s about Tor. Have you noticed her behaving differently lately?”

  “Yes – why, do you know what’s the matter with her?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “No…I did think maybe she was worrying about Skardroft, but I don’t think it’s that.”

  Xantilor looked pensive. “So you have no idea?”

  If dragons had a fault, thought Barlanik, it was a tendency to be mysterious. “No, do you?”

  “Tor has not confided in me, but I am a dragon, and dragons are not easily deceived. I am surprised, though, that you have not suspected…”

  “Suspected what?”

  “I was hoping you would guess. I fear Tor would not like me to disclose her secret to you. I feel somewhat disloyal…”

  Barlanik waited patiently. Either Xantilor was going to tell him, or he was not; and having asked him to come over, it seemed likely he was going to tell him. Eventually. Xantilor coughed and tried another tack.

  “How do you feel about Tor?”

  “I have a high opinion of Tor, as you know,” Barlanik said with constraint.I love her…

  Xantilor looked significantly at him and spoke with meaning. “And how does Tor feel about you?”

  “Well, I…” All at once Barlanik understood what Xantilor was trying to tell him. He gazed at the dragon.

  Xantilor relaxed. “Yes, that’s it.”

  Barlanik walked back to his office. Tor was sitting on his desk waiting for him, folding a little dragon with flapping wings out of paper, watched closely by the cat. She looked up.

  “Drewitt says I ought to be with his cavalry for the assault on Tarragon as Xantilor’s wing’s still not better.”

  “Would you rather be with me like you were yesterday?”

  Tor nodded.

  “That’s fine. I’ll have a word with Drewitt.”

  “Thanks. You look cheerful.”

  “We won a battle yesterday, and I hope we’ll win another tomorrow,” he replied, looking in her eyes and thinking, my God, Xantilor’s right, why didn’t I see it?

  He went over to the window and looked out, to hide the fact that he couldn’t stop smiling; she would wonder what was wrong with him, grinning like an idiot. After the battle he would speak to her; not now, for fear of disturbing her concentration. He dreaded anything happening to her. Meanwhile, they could safely discuss the dinner…

  “I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to talk to you last night,” he began. There was a knock on the door and Edric walked in. He looked from Tor to Barlanik.

  “Hope I’m not interrupting anything. I’ve had one or two ideas about our attack formation tomorrow.”

  Barlanik stopped smiling without difficulty. Having unwillingly listened to Edric’s inexperienced theories on strategy for half an hour the evening before, he felt he had paid his dues to politeness where Edric was concerned.

  “I can giv
e you five minutes, then I have to go. If you can tell me in that time, fire away. I’ll see you, Tor.”

  Tor gave the paper dragon to the cat, who began to bat it about with a ginger paw, and made for the door. As she left, Edric was saying, “I realized this morning where you’ve been going wrong with placing the foot soldiers. If you think about it it’s obvious; I’ve done these diagrams that show what I mean…”

  CHAPTER 31

  Fight to take the Palace

  Urquin’s army stood outside Tarragon. Tor watched Barlanik a few yards away as he sat motionless astride the big white horse, on a rise where he could be seen by all his troops. She thought how handsome he looked in his best armour, scarlet and gold; he reckoned the advantage of visibility to his own side, with the reassurance it gave his men, outweighed the risk of being singled out by an enemy sniper. The three dragons waited in a line to one side, burnished by the early morning sun, four Knights and two extra soldiers on each.

  From the massed ranks of the infantry, the cavalry and the archers, Tor could hear the section leaders addressing their men. As each rousing speech finished, the men would cheer and turn their attention to Barlanik. When the last cheer had died away, and Barlanik judged every eye was on him, he turned his horse’s head in the direction of the enemy and started towards their lines, his army behind him. Tor urged Carrots forward, intent on staying near Barlanik as the horses accelerated. The dragons took to the air.

  Skardroft sat in the square tower to watch the battle through the embrasures, his feelings very different from those with which he had watched the assault on Kallarven Castle. Then, he had been entirely confident of victory; now everything hung in the balance and this day would decide the future of the kingdom. Only his anxiety about Torbrek was unchanged.

  Tarragon was the strongest fortress in the land, but, relying on superior numbers, Routh had made the decision to meet Barlanik’s troops outside the city walls. He had had the ground cleared of the maze of alleyways, makeshift hovels and workshops that clung to the outside of the ramparts. Most of his men would be marshalled there, a vantage point from which they could see the enemy’s approach. Routh hoped to draw the dragons down to within reach of the massed archers and javelin throwers, aiming up from the ground and down from the battlements. He had ordered them to aim for the wings and the eyes, hoping by sheer volume of missiles to cause injury. Every man in the army understood how vital the task was.

  Get the dragons out of the equation, and Routh was sure the rebels could be vanquished. It was a high-risk strategy and gave them only one chance; if they failed to bring them down, the army would be at the mercy of the dragons and there would be no chance of winning.

  As the enemy thundered towards them, Skardroft could easily pick out Barlanik, there in the lead on his big white charger, in spite of never having seen him before. He tried to recognize Torbrek from the soldiers around Barlanik…he could not see Whisper…then he saw her, he was almost certain, on the dark bay with the white face. He strained his eyes. Impossible to be sure at this distance with the helmet and the armour and the speed of the horses…

  The three dragons flew side by side immediately above Barlanik’s troops. Routh’s archers and javelin throwers waited for them to come within range, their weapons pointing upwards. But just before they got in reach, instead of swooping in to attack as expected, the dragons flew higher, over the city walls and out of view. The men looked at each other, then lowered their weapons to fight the enemy on the ground, who had used those few seconds to gallop close without a barrage of arrows. Routh cursed Barlanik; he should have known his strategy would not be the obvious one. His men were cheered by not having to face the dragons and were fighting their best, but Routh knew it was a brief reprieve. The dragons were not here where he was ready for them; they would be somewhere else where he was not.

  Zik and Ottobar landed behind the main city gate, while Mortheano gave them cover from the air. With two blasts of flame, they cleared the soldiers guarding the entrance; most of their riders leaped off the dragons and lifted the heavy bars that secured the gate. Slowly it rolled open on its massive hinges, exposing the back of Routh’s army. The two dragons moved forward, staying where they could not be seen by the archers on the battlements above, and sent flames to sear the army in two. Attacked from in front and behind with steel and fire, Routh’s army split in half; men moved sideways to be faced with the two arms of the opposing army, while Barlanik led an elite force into Tarragon, confident that as the battle went their way the people would come out to help.

  By midday Routh had done everything he could, and now nothing he did could make any difference to the outcome of the battle and the war. Sporadic fighting continued, fierce in places, and the conflict had not yet reached the palace, but it was clear the battle for Tarragon could only end one way. Defeat was bitter.

  Grimly, he set about his last task. He took a good longbow and some arrows from one of his dead soldiers on the ramparts, and walked towards the palace across the deserted battleground. Here and there fires were burning with no one to put them out; the fine houses were shuttered and empty, their gates open, lawns and flowers trampled. Routh went through the black smoke, stepping over dead and dying men, some groaning or calling for help, most quiet. Flies hovered and settled.

  Fighting had not reached the royal gardens, the absence of gardeners the only sign of anything untoward. The palace waited intact for the enemy soldiers’ approach, oddly quiet after the noise of battle and the terrible screams of men burnt by the dragons. The gatehouse guards, about twenty men, were still at their posts and saluted him.

  Routh made his way to a chamber above the entrance hall, which had a sliding panel that gave a view of the whole space beneath. The insurgents would have to go through there on their way from the gatehouse to the palace; they would have to defeat the Palace Guards to get to Skardroft. He felt complete certainty that Torbrek would be of their number.

  He settled down to wait.

  Tor, Barlanik, Kerris, Edric and their chosen men fought their way through the palace gatehouse and found themselves in the splendid, high-ceilinged entrance hall, its floor chequered black and white marble. From there, doors opened on to a small grassed courtyard, brilliantly green with climbing plants and trees in pots, with a central fountain whose bronze dragon spouted water instead of fire. Beyond this was the grand door to a further larger hall, the main staircase and the staterooms. There was a lull; as yet the Palace Guards were nowhere to be seen. A blackbird sang.

  Barlanik posted men at the windows to warn of attack, and took stock of his troop. One soldier’s arm was bleeding badly, and Drewitt bandaged it while the rest waited for him, taking the opportunity to get their breath back. Barlanik and Kerris drew apart and talked strategy.

  Tor too wandered away from the others a little so she could take off her helmet briefly without Barlanik seeing her. He thought it unnecessarily risky to fight bareheaded; left to herself Tor would not have worn a helmet at all. It made her head hot. She ran her hand through her hair. Above her, Routh gently slid back the hidden panel a little further and raised his bow. There she was, unmistakeable; a nice clear shot. He pulled back the bowstring, taking careful aim. It had to be spot on; he might not get a second chance. Edric walked over to Tor, getting between Routh and his target.

  “Now, Tor, you should know better than that,” he said, wagging a finger at her as though she was a child.

  While Tor accepted Barlanik’s directives, she classed Edric’s advice as interference. Tor would not tolerate being told what to do by Edric; she had had more than enough of him in the last two days. He always seemed to pick on her. She could not understand why he did not just ignore her when he thought everything about her was wrong. His superior, know-it-all manner was infuriating. Tor pretended not to know what he was talking about.

  “What is your problem, Edric?”

  “You know as well as I do you’re being irresponsible taking your helmet off.”


  “Of course, what was I thinking?” she said, looking round her. “I can see it’s really important to keep my helmet on at the moment. A loose piece of decorative moulding might land on my head and kill me. Or I might fall over and bang my head on the floor.”

  Edric spelt it out for her. “You’re making it easy for an enemy archer, presenting a head shot like that.”

  “Which enemy archer would that be, then?” Tor glanced around her again. “I tell you what, why don’t you wait till they get me, then you can tell me you told me so, I won’t mind.”

  “Come on Tor, apart from anything else you should be setting an example to the men. Supposing they all started taking off their helmets whenever they felt like it in the middle of a battle, where would we be then?”

  “Edric, for goodness’ sake, it’s safe enough where we are. Just for you I promise to put it back on before we fight the Palace Guard. But there’s nothing life-threatening in here.”

  Edric looked round the quiet room, with its lofty ornately-panelled walls, as though he might find evidence there to prove Tor wrong. Something up high moved and caught the light for a moment. Edric, his mind focused on setting Tor straight, wondered absently what it was, and moved a few paces to see better. Routh had a clear view of Tor again.

  “That’s hardly the point, Tor. Do grow up a bit.”

  Tor lost patience. “Edric, why are you such a prat?”

  Edric was not listening; he suddenly realized that what he was looking at was the metal tip of an arrow, and it was pointing directly at Tor. He barged into her to get her out of the way, knocking her to the floor just as the arrow shot from the bow. Taken by surprise she fell hard. Her helmet rolled noisily across the stone paving, and everyone turned to look. Outraged, Tor picked herself up.

  “What…” Edric lay at her feet in a fast-growing pool of blood, an arrow skewered deep in his side. A shudder went through him and he lay still. Tor knelt beside him and felt for his heartbeat. Barlanik worked out where the arrow had come from and in one smooth fast movement drew his dagger and threw it at Routh, who was cursing and swiftly putting a second arrow to his bow. There was a muffled clatter from his hiding place. Kerris with two of his men ran up the spiral stairs to find him.