It was horribly still outside. The sky was the oddest colour; a dirty yellow. Tor could hardly breathe. It was as though all the air had been sucked out of the area where they floated. All was silent and eerie.
But far worse was the scene on deck.
Little Ryk had been tied to the main mast with one arm pinioned above his head. He was petrified; his eyes were glazed like those of a terrified deer. Tor saw that the small boy had lost his water in his fright. The crew stood around laughing and jeering whilst Blackhand, limping from his scalded groin, bellowed that this was how he treated anyone who mistreated him. It was a ghastly picture.
All Tor could think of was Cloot. He saw him again as he had first seen him, nailed by his ear to a post and surrounded by a jeering crowd howling for the brute Corlin to inflict more pain on the poor mute. Tor felt the same immense anger rising in him again now. He dimly heard Locky speaking as the Colours roared up inside him.
‘Tor, there is nothing we can do, or we shall lose our own hands. These men are frightened of the storm; they know their lives might be lost today. They care little for the boy. They just want to see the blood and let someone else suffer.’
Blackhand raged at the boy. ‘Are you ready, young Ryk? A cook, are you, eh? Well, you’ll never chop meat again once your hand is nailed to my mast.’
Suddenly the air turned so thick everyone had trouble breathing. Ryk sucked in great gulps; his eyes flicking from sailor to sailor, imploring for their help. They just laughed. They wanted to see his hand fly off, wanted to watch his arm pump its lifeblood and see the tiny trophy nailed to the ship to bring Blackhand’s macabre count to forty-four.
Ryk locked onto Tor. ‘Physic Petersyn,’ he screamed, ‘save me, sir!’
Blackhand looked at Tor. ‘This is none of your business, Physic. If you interfere, I will chop off both his hands and throw what’s left of him into the sea.’
The wind was picking up. It began to swirl madly around them.
‘He’s just a lad, captain,’ Tor yelled back over the howl.
‘He offends me, Physic. Stay out of this.’
‘I can’t.’
Blackhand motioned to his henchmen nearby and rough hands gripped Tor and pinned him back against the ship’s rail. Tor let them hold him; he did not need his arms anyway. The Colours were ready. He could call on them at any time.
The captain smiled and turned back to the child, whose body was now shaking so hard that his knees were giving way beneath him. If it was not for the rope holding him in place, he would not be standing. His fingers balled into a fist as he struggled.
‘Help me!’ he shrieked as Blackhand stepped up to him.
‘Off with his hand,’ one of the crew yelled. Everyone but Tor, Locky and the hooded stranger who had suddenly appeared on deck, laughed.
Locky looked sideways at Tor. ‘That’s the creepy priest.’
Tor nodded and returned his attention to Blackhand. The captain took a short-handled axe from his first mate and showed it to the crew. They cheered.
‘Let it fly,’ some wit yelled again.
Ryk was sobbing now and staring at Tor.
Stay calm, Ryk, Tor thought, wishing he could communicate it to the boy.
Blackhand took aim at the boy’s wrist.
Tor closed his eyes; he weaved the Colours.
With a loud grunt, the captain swung his arm through a mighty arc. Tor heard a bloodcurdling scream, which could only be Ryk, followed by a thud and then a groan. He opened his eyes to see the axe buried in the captain’s chest. Blackhand wore a look of such surprise, it was almost comical. Blood was spewing from the fatal wound and, though he tried to utter something, the words died as he did.
His enormous bulk fell to the deck with a crash, splattering blood on everyone nearby. All fell silent, the only sound the howling of the wind which had increased in intensity.
Ryk’s eyes were wide with amazement at still being whole. The men holding Tor let go of him and went to their captain, unsure of how such a thing could have happened.
‘Cut Ryk free,’ Tor said sharply to Locky. ‘Now!’
The men milled around their captain’s body; some nudged him with their boots. Locky had to carry Ryk over to Tor; the boy was in such shock he could not speak, let alone walk.
All the while, the storm was gathering in ferocity. A crack of lightning erupted above their heads, so powerful it split the main mast in two, just where Ryk had been tied moments earlier. The sparks leapt to Blackhand’s body, which began to burn.
‘The liquor!’ Locky yelled. ‘He drank a whole bottle this morning to dull the pain and spilled another half bottle over himself in his efforts. It’s ignited.’
Tor nodded. Another lightning strike and then a loud thunderclap directly overhead. He realised that the ship was beginning to spin in a sickening circle as the water started to boil around them.
‘Locky, we have to get off the ship.’
Cracks were opening in the timber. He reckoned it would be barely moments before the whole ship broke apart from the pressure. The wind was still raging. Many men would die today. He saw bodies being thrown against the sides of the ship; others leapt into the high waves, only to be knocked back against the ship. The captain’s corpse was being flung from side to side and his blood smeared across the flaming deck.
Locky was terrified. He could taste death. Ryk was no longer whimpering; he had become stiff and silent in Locky’s arms.
‘Give him to me,’ Tor yelled, fighting to stay upright.
Another bolt of lightning hit, but the ship was burning heartily now anyway. It would give itself up to its fiery death in moments.
Locky wrapped Ryk’s hands around Tor’s neck and the boy buried his head into his protector’s shoulder. He was feather-light.
‘Now hold onto me, Locky,’ Tor shouted over the wind as they clambered onto the side of the railing. ‘Whatever happens, don’t let go.’
‘We’ll never survive this,’ Locky screamed back, awed by nature’s anger around him.
As they jumped, Tor’s sharp eyes caught the movement of a black-robed figure also leaping. The priest. His hood had been blown back and Tor could finally see the man’s face.
Amidst the clammy warmth of the storm’s eye, Tor felt a chill crawl across his skin. The stranger’s twisted, scarred flesh was all too familiar; the small, cold eyes regarded him, just for a fleeting second, with menace.
Tor felt as if his own horror was being mirrored in that terrible face.
It was Goth.
12
The Faintings
‘But, Father, the Testings of the novices begins in two weeks.’
Gidyon, feeling uncharacteristically sulky, was standing by the window in his master’s chambers. Father Piers remained silent and puffed gently on his favourite pipe, whittled by himself many years prior to this moment. He settled into his worn chair, which creaked as he sat down.
Gidyon turned to face him. ‘Father, I hardly know her. I’ve never met her and I rarely reply to her few and far between letters. What is it going to mean to her if I do go all the way north to Petrine? What am I to say to her? For all I know, she might die whilst I am on the road there and then it will all have been for nothing and I will have missed study time I badly need.’
That was a barefaced lie. Gidyon needed no extra study time. He knew he would pass the Testings with ease. To cover his discomfort at the untruth he raked his hands through his dark, straight hair and returned, with exasperation, to the other side of the desk.
Father Piers regarded his charge. A popular boy of the fifth Stair, almost ready to take full vows. One more cycle of moons through the sixth and final Stair of the Order of Ferenyans was all it would take. He had grown so tall over the years with them and yet he was probably going to be much taller. Piers acknowledged that Gidyon was often wise beyond his years and destined for a senior place in the Order. He was also of a generous disposition and had a sunny nature, which made his stanc
e on this matter odd.
Piers cleared his throat. ‘As I understand it, this is all the family you have. I realise you hardly know your grandmother but she has faithfully paid her donations these last eleven years and, although you don’t remember your parents, she must…and you should respect this.’
He gave a series of short puffs on his pipe before reaching for the clay mug of herbal tea. He took his time stirring in two heaped spoonfuls of honey as he silently sympathised with the youth. This situation with his remote grandmother was very poorly timed indeed, coinciding with critical tests in the boy’s march towards his bands and ordination. He was certainly likely to be regarded for the Blues, skipping quickly through the hierarchy of Whites, Yellows and Greens. He might possibly even go straight to Reds—an achievement previously unheard of, but this talented youngster could probably do it.
He chose his words carefully. ‘Gidyon, you are not a student who is struggling with his studies. I think we all agree on this, despite your concerns. I know that attaining your Blues means a great deal to you and we are all very proud of your efforts. But the fact is, your grandmother is gravely ill and it is our duty to make sure you fulfil her simple request to see you before she dies. Abbot Muggerydge insists.’
He held up his hand to stop the boy protesting.
‘If, in the most unlikely event you should fail to reach the level in your Testings we all know you are capable of, then Abbot Muggerydge has agreed to accompany your papers with a special mention. Now, that’s good enough for me—what about you?’
The boy swallowed a gulp of unsweetened tea and fixed his incredibly blue eyes on his superior. He held the gaze defiantly for just a moment, then dropped it with a quiet sigh.
‘You’re right, of course, Father. I just feel awkward about meeting a grandmother I don’t know, other than by name and a few letters. I’m sorry for sounding selfish—it’s just these tests are so important.’ He bit his lip and struggled with the decision before saying, finally, ‘I’ll leave this afternoon then?’
‘Yes, yes, that’s fine,’ replied Piers, with relief. He stretched. ‘I hope the old girl keeps her strength to see you. You’re a good lad and she’ll no doubt be very proud to meet you.’ He blew out his lips ‘Anyway, Gynt, it will probably do you a world of good to get away from this place for a few days.’
Oh no, here it comes again, Gidyon thought, the fit, or whatever that thing was a few days ago.
‘Very strange business,’ Piers continued, ‘you passing out like that and giving us all a scare. You’ve probably been burning the midnight oil studying or something, eh?’ He looked at Gidyon over his pipe. It was not really a question.
‘I’ll be off then, Father. Thank you for the tea.’
Gidyon made his way back to the east wing. True, it had been strange, his suddenly passing out like that in the cloisters, not to mention inconvenient as he had happened to be speaking in front of the new novices. They had carried his rigid body to the hospital wing and later the older novices had excitedly described to him how his eyes had rolled back into his head. Some wit had suggested he also began frothing at the mouth and speaking in tongues. This had caused great hilarity in the hospital before they were all shooed out by the monk in charge. Gidyon had no idea what had happened. It had been an isolated event. He ate enough for six and he had not been burning the midnight oil at all. If the truth be known, he did not have to study all that hard anyway. There was no explanation and he just wanted the fuss to stop.
Gidyon let himself into his small but adequate quarters. As head of the fifth Stair he luxuriated in the privilege of his own tiny room whilst his peers quadrupled up and the younger boys shared with eight, sometimes ten others. He enjoyed the solitude after years of putting up with everyone else’s mess, noise and problems in the dormitories. Life at the monastery was still structured and full though and he liked it that way. He had known no other way of living since he had come to this place and memories before that were so vague he rarely, if ever, tried to recall them. He dimly recollected the old lady but, as an infant, she had packed him off here. Who could blame him for not being overwhelmed by her invitation to meet her again before she died? It seemed rather ghoulish, as well as pointless.
Gidyon knew he was the Order’s brightest, most gifted novice and probably headed for the Reds. And, although no one wanted to say it, all silently acknowledged that he was probably destined to be Abbot one day, when he would have the ear of the King and a role in the politics of the region. Gidyon was outstanding at sports too; there was no physical activity to which he could not bend his body. Fast, agile, skilled, it was magical to watch him perform, be it on a horse or running in a race. Whatever the sport, Gidyon would be at the front and winning. Tall and good-looking to boot, it seemed he had it all.
He did not much care, however, for the whispers of those who made such claims. They thought he could not hear their idle chat, but his hearing was exceptionally acute. His close friends teased him about it; one reckoned he could even hear the birds breathing in the trees. Their comments amused Gidyon, for at times he could believe such folly himself.
Little wonder that his nickname was ‘The Wizard’. He hated it but the moment it was coined, it had stuck like glue. He had learned to accept it with a deprecating shrug and plain good grace. No point in fighting it. Gidyon often tried to imagine what his parents had been like. Which particular aspects of them had combined to produce ‘The Wizard’? He would never know. He did not know what had happened to his parents. Had they died? Left him at birth with his grandmother? Left each other? He had forced himself to give up asking such questions. But they would come to haunt him sometimes in his dreams…who was he?
Sometimes he heard a woman’s voice, whispering to him in his dreams. He could never recall what she had said when he woke. He never told anyone about it. Why would he? As far as he could tell, she had never said anything to intimidate him or make him feel anxious. If he was honest, she was almost a comfort to him. He had never known his mother but he liked to believe she had a voice like this dream woman.
Gidyon stopped staring out of the window and dragged himself back to the task of packing. He looked around the room. The walls were covered with diagrams of all things astronomical. His passion for stargazing and worlds beyond his own was evident and he was single-minded in his desire to pursue the science of the stars once he had taken his vows.
‘Black devils! I don’t need this,’ he cursed as he threw his spare cassock into a small bag. It occurred to him for probably the hundredth time since he had heard the news that he had cost his elusive grandmother a pretty pile in donations and going to visit her before she died was the least he could do. He added to the bag a hat and some rough woollen mittens he felt he may need against the chill of Petrine’s highlands. In the small glass on the wall, he checked his long hair was still tied back neatly before picking up the bag to leave.
‘Stupid…what are you going to do for all those lonely hours?’ He pulled his new tablet of rag paper from under the wooden pallet where he slept and bumped his head on the frame getting up. Scowling with pain, he noticed his old stone on the windowsill. Gidyon had owned the stone for as long as he could remember. He could not recall precisely how he had come by it but it was a special item of childhood that he always took along to his annual Testings. He rolled the perfectly round, heavy sphere in his palm, watching its faint lights of crimson, gold, violet and emerald. It seemed that only he could see the colours. His fellow novices told him he was mad when he asked if they could see them too. So be it. He could see the colours and they never failed to fascinate him. He slipped it absently into the deep pocket of his cassock.
In the cool corridor, Gidyon yelled farewell to some novices before heading for the cloisters. The friendly taunts of the other students followed him.
‘You’d do anything to get out of the Testings, Gynt!’
‘Give grandma our regards.’
He grinned as he leapt the few stair
s to his favourite part of the monastery. The friendly catcalls and guffaws died away as he entered the peace of the cloisters. He loved the vaulted ceilings and pillars and the beautiful gardens which he helped the monks tend. He breathed in the silence and calm one more time, then stepped through the magnificent archway into the front courtyard.
The old stable master was there, holding a fine horse ready for him.
‘Good day, Master Gynt.’
‘And to you, Horys,’ Gidyon replied. He recognised the horse: Empress. He was pleased this mare would be accompanying him. He had ridden her many times and appreciated her gentle nature and big heart.
He held out an apple he had picked from one of the trees in the cloisters. ‘Here you go, girl,’ he said, stroking her soft muzzle.
‘Thank you, she’s one of my favourites,’ he said to the stableman.
‘His Grace insisted you have a reliable horse for the journey. They don’t come much better than Empress,’ the old man said, handing him her reins. ‘She’s provisioned for two days. You’ll need to replenish stores at Merbury. Oh, and I’m to give you this note. Father Piers just caught me on my way here and asked me to deliver it.’ Horys nodded deferentially and handing him a folded paper.
Gidyon read its contents quickly. Piers told him there was a purse of money in one of the bags and that he should try to live frugally on his travels. He also wrote that a man called Galbryth would meet Gidyon in Petrine township and escort him to his grandmother’s remote property.
Horys continued. ‘I imagine the journey will take you five, possibly six sunrises. Stick to the main towns from Merbury and veer off towards Three Lakes which will take you directly to Petrine.’ He nodded to take his leave.
Gidyon thanked the man again and climbed up onto the horse, which patiently waited whilst he settled himself comfortably. He waved before nudging her forwards onto the road which would lead him away from the monastery and all things familiar. Turning his stone in his pocket, Gidyon allowed Empress to walk at her own gentle pace as he drifted off into a daydream in which he imagined himself a hero on a wild adventure, leading an army, fighting off monsters, with women swooning over him.
Revenge Page 13
