Shackled and bound in biting dungeon chains, he winced as she raised her staff high above her head. She mumbled an incantation: “Excruciate!”
His elderly, abused, bruised and battered body convulsed horribly. He leaped as if whipped. His chains jerked taut. His teeth bit hard; his eyes shut with blinding pain. He screamed violently, again and again. Caralusta’s staff viciously struck his head. A green light flashed brightly, momentarily blinding his jailor and guards who were enjoying proceedings from outside. One held keys. The others held heavy, curved swords.
“You dare toy with me?” Caralusta cried. She clubbed his head again with her staff.
He crashed to the ground, chains rattling, shielding himself. Pain in his head could not be endured. It would kill him shortly, he knew. Black shadows filled his mind. It was over. A tear dropped from his tightly shut eyes; tears of loss for the beauty of Lafarrhine’s countryside, purple vineyards lining green hills like so many velvet rows, pretty as a picture seen from his workshop balcony, guiding eager acolytes into wonders of magic before they called him for lunch on his bright and breezy terrace.
She thrust her staff into his solar plexus. It forced air from his lungs. He doubled up in pain. He spluttered and coughed. She waved her staff. His head pain suddenly ceased. He retched. Nothing but brown liquid spewed out, remains of stale bread and dirty water served only in evenings, laced with a slow poison.
The old man shivered uncontrollably on icy stone from his toes to the tip of his white, wispy hair, wet with blood. Caralusta stood over him. Staff in hand, she smirked at her pitiful, frail victim who surely could not live much longer. Her mistress, the Sorceress, was wasting her time. She should have killed him long ago very, very slowly.
Chapter Twelve
Cuthbert Castle
THEIR JOURNEY TO RESWALD began. En route, Alex shared facts about his country. “Lord Cuthbert remains, according to my recently deceased aunt, may Rohalgamoth look kindly upon her, alone among Reswald nobles loyal to Harrad. As there has been no definitive proof of my father’s death, Lord Cuthbert has harboured a secret hope of his return. Dagan has tightened his grip on power in recent years. His nobles and especially Druids of Purple Ivy seem keen not to oppose him, despite his growing disregard for Reswald’s Charter and our constitution.”
They travelled north along the Yarra River, getting acquainted with one another. Perry’s initial advances toward Razel were as subtle as a dwarven war hammer. She sent a speedy, unambiguous message to him, which included an unexpected, resounding slap across his face. Perry’s welt lasted four hours.
This paved the way for Elfindi, whose elven charms fared no better though he managed to avoid a slap. After that, as if following some evolutionary law among male pecking orders, Alex moved in, attempting to woo her with promises of wealth and privilege once he’d ascended Reswald’s throne. “I shall make Reswald great again like my predecessors, you wait and see.”
“I am not interested,” Razel explained. “I am committed to my magical advancement. I do not waste my time with boys.”
After several days, Caspar sidled up to Talarren. “Talarren, this boy Alex. My heart goes out to him losing his entire family during the Norse Devastation. But he’s an upstart. Precocious as a peacock. We are all doing him a monumental favour. And for what? Nothing but empty promises of reward if his sorry backside does sit upon that stupid Reswald throne. We know it never will. Why are we doing this?”
Talarren smiled. Over the years, how many leagues had he and Caspar journeyed together? Caspar’s implicitly contradictory character traits made him fascinating company. In a gesture filled with affection and respect, Talarren placed his hand on Caspar’s shoulder and smiled.
They passed oaks, birch, redwoods and other wondrous trees adorned with leaves of every shape and description, from rich dark greens absorbing the sun to light lime. They threw out scents and fragrances that delighted Talarren’s senses. Perched upon the branches or making their flights from tree to tree flew blackbirds, finches, magpies, robins, warblers and half a dozen others. These decorated the landscape with their bright colours. The birds chirped melodiously or obnoxiously, depending on how they felt about the newcomers. Talarren breathed in nature’s beauty. As a Ranger, wilderness settings fulfilled his innate desire for space and freedom. He felt happy as a druid living in an isolated woodland. Caspar noticed in Talarren’s eyes during these rare moments that his defences dropped a little. He seemed not to carry that habitual weight upon his broad shoulders of the encroaching presence of evil. His eyes gained a sort of innocent childlikeness. Caspar understood. He shared Talarren’s zeal for harmony in the world. He, like Talarren, imbibed a desire to live a virtuous life. Talarren could pour his heart out to him, in his more vulnerable moments, and receive an understanding ear. He did not concern himself with the elderly cleric’s fastidious exactness or obsessive cleanliness. He even saw it as endearing. Caspar, of course, rejected this character trait as a personality disorder, which his fellow clerics often teased him about. “Can I help it if most people live like pigs in a sty?” was his standard riposte.
When Caspar asked his question, Talarren’s eyes lost their childlikeness. Instead, a steely grey resolve entered them, reflecting the stormy age they lived in, threatened and surrounded by evil on all sides, as yet unseen by most common folk plying their trade in cities and hamlets across the continents.
“Caspar,” Talarren responded slowly, studying a gathering of grey storm-clouds bunching up like a pugilist preparing for a prize fight in a circus arena, “I have a much deeper motivation for helping this young lad, precocious as he is.” Talarren breathed in air ripe with pine cones and decomposing leaves, grateful to be able to share his plans with a trusted friend. “If we can discover anything at all about what happened to King Harrad all those years ago, it may, just may, lead us to clues about our long lost Amulet of Power.”
“You really think so?” Caspar asked in lowered voice. He paused, allowing Talarren’s words to sink in. As he realised the weight of Talarren’s words, his excitement knew no bounds. It was his own Order, the clerics of Ehud, that had safeguarded this ancient Amulet since its original fashioning in the First Age. “If we recovered this priceless magical artefact it may answer long unanswered questions about King Harrad’s disappearance as well.”
“Yes. This Highland quest may lead us to Norse pirates who have information about King Harrad. In my opinion, which Aelred shares, King Harrad was abducted, not killed. Whoever abducted him wanted a king’s ransom.”
“But there have been no ransom demands,” Caspar objected. “He simply disappeared without word or trace.”
“No demands that we know of,” Talarren corrected him. “What if those demands fell into Dagan’s hands? I don’t see him hurrying to pay any ransom.”
Caspar considered this. What Talarren said was true. “So this is your strategy,” Caspar asked, “why you have been so insistent about stopping these pirates and finding Harrad’s Title Deeds? These are but surface reasons for a yet deeper quest – to find the Amulet of Rohalgamoth?”
“Yes,” Talarren said simply. “While I whole-heartedly desire to see an end to these pirates and wish to have justice restored in Reswald, I do indeed have a deeper motive. Reasons for undertaking this quest become more compelling when I see the history between the Druids of Purple Ivy and the Amulet of Power. As a cleric of Ehud, you would know it is almost certain that senior members of the Grove, even now, are involved in Dark Arts.
“This means that a demonic influence has emerged within our land, only leagues from Lafarrhine. There demon who must be growing bold. Evil is spreading. Tāhūbād’s expansion and his alliance with Baal clerics is gravely concerning. These priests are given free reign across all his domains. Things are so much more serious, I fear, than many realise. I fear, Caspar, we are on the threshold of the Age of Demons. My heart trembles when I think of what may come to pass. At all costs, we must find this Amulet. We need every
defence we can muster against this terrible threat.” Caspar noticed the grim aspect darkening Talarren’s face. He seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders and in his eyes.
“And you enticed these others here on promises of treasure and adventure?” Caspar asked with a benign reprimand.
“Answering these Highlanders’ summons provided a perfect cover for my real objective. It amounts to the same thing. Either way, we are fighting evil. That is a good thing. When Alex showed up, his goals fell directly into my plans. If my companions earn sackfuls of gold, so much the better.”
“Do you really think the Age of Demons is upon us?”
“Alas, I do.” Talarren’s eyes hardened. Fighting evil and repelling the Age of Demons was his life’s vocation. To fulfil this ambition he renounced his desires for a woman’s love and for raising a family, for fathering sons, for teaching them to fish and hunt, for sitting them in his lap and thrilling them with tales from his life. Such was his destiny, formed under his mentor’s tutelage, his beloved Ignatius, who strangely went travelling recently but had not sent word with news. “Once we find the Amulet,” Talarren continued, “we need to find Log-Kyrios, the lost Sword of Extinction.”
****
After four days of hard travel they arrived at a large castle ten leagues south of Reswaldtown. Lord Cuthbert greeted his weary guests warmly. His servants sorted them into guest rooms. Ostlers took charge of horses. After a quick meal, they retired and fell into a long, dreamless sleep.
Early next morning they woke for a quick breakfast prepared by Cuthbert’s cooks. Perry and Kron made it clear they did not appreciate yet another early morning. They saw no point denying themselves sleep in luxurious feather beds made from prize goose down.
“Don’t you dwarves sleep on stone?” Perry asked.
“No, we sleep on nails,” Kron growled.
Lord and Lady Cuthbert ate with them, worry etched on their faces. If discovered harbouring a party dedicated to Harrad’s reascension, they risked beheading, or worse, sleeping on the slimy green grime of Dagan’s dungeons for the term of their natural lives.
“Fear not, Lord Cuthbert,” Talarren reassured him. “Your secret is safe. Your loyalty to Harrad is commendable. May you soon see Harrad reign once more.”
“They will see that day soon,” Alex said grimly, his young face aflame with the naivety of youth. “All night I have been reading and re-reading my family’s history in this once great realm. It is my intention to restore its greatness as in days of yore. Even more importantly, I must track down my long lost brother. He also survived, my aunt told me, but got separated after our flight from the secret tunnel. He was carried by another servant. She said he bears the mark of Harrad. In all my reading, I do not know what that means. His name is Lucien. Like my father, I do not know if he is alive.”
As they sat at table, Elfindi leaned forward over his roast duck, stretching out for a jar of gravy. Razel, sitting opposite, noticed his other arm extend out underneath the table to where Perry was sitting. She looked down her exquisite nose at them, shaking her head.
“Even such looks of contempt cannot disfigures your beautiful face,” Perry whispered to her. When she turned away, he whispered to Elfindi: “And you will pay dearly for that pinch.”
“With what?” the half-elf whispered with a self-satisfied gloat.
Perry’s hand immediately went to his purse. It was not there. Elfindi’s smile threatened to swallow his ears. Perry thrust his finger at Elfindi, preparing to launch into a bout of threats.
“Gentlemen!” Caspar urged, his smile not concealing his anger. “We are not in your local tavern. We are at the table of a Lord.”
“I apologise for my behaviour, Your Lordship,” Perry began, “however I crave your indulgence. Travelling with a half-elf such as…”
No medusa glare could compare with Caspar’s scowl. Perry decided he’d better not argue. He bowed a silent apology to the table, sneaking another peak at Razel’s beautiful but disgusted face. It only made her more beautiful, Perry thought irritably. Elfindi would pay doubly dearly for this. As soon as he got his purse back.
Kron contented himself with plate after plate of whatever Lord Cuthbert’s flabbergasted maids served - roast duck with garlic gravy, pork ribs basted in honey sauce, trout covered in white wine sauce, beef stew seasoned with parsley and bitter herbs, turkey drumsticks and quail marinaded in peach syrup. Though mildly interested in Reswald’s affairs, his chief concern, ostensibly, revolved around how to destroy a band of low-life pirates. And plunder their loot, which was no more than what they did to others. If fortune favoured his dwarven beard, a glimmer of hope may yet remain for him to pursue his secret dream. This must remain unknown to his companions, he decided. This petty quest was but a stepping stone to more weighty matters. Should he have joined those adventurers seeking treasures of the Black Dragon, he wondered? A dragon hoard would absolutely provide him with requisite gold, even if divided ten times over. Yet certain death awaited them, he felt sure. He had once seen a rampaging Red Dragon in Albatross Mountains. A fear like none other seized his powerful frame. The dragon left devastation in its wake, its eyes like raging, glowing embers filled with malice, its breath like tornados of fire. No axe blade penetrated its side. Its teeth glistened like polished swords. If a Red Dragon posed such an invincible threat, what must a Black Dragon be like? Of the two lizards, Black was believed more deadly. He was too young to die. He had his dream. Until that day, he would endure his life as bounty-hunter. In eyes of kith and kin, it was a lowly, miserable way of life. Yet how else could he turn around his fortunes and live to see glory return to the dwarven kingdoms, to replace the scorn and ridicule now heaped upon them by men and elves?
After double-checking their equipment, Talarren and his party took to the open road on their way to Harrad Castle, unsure of what to expect.
Chapter Thirteen
En Route to Harrad Castle
PERRY KEPT THE WAGON trotting along at a healthy pace. Horse sweat mixed with hay from nearby fields in the brisk coldness of early morning. “Let’s arrive before midday,” Talarren urged them as he rode on his horse alongside the wagon.
Inside their non-descript wagon sat Razel, Kron and Alex. Weapons and packs lay at their feet. Hunter crouched on a pile of blankets, sniffing every now and then when new scents wafted in. Perry insisted on driving the wagon. He held the reigns loosely in his hands. Elfindi sat next to him, his keen eyes peeled.
“Do we really have to be so quiet?” Perry asked him, slightly irritated. “Who will hear us out here?”
“One can never be too careful,” Talarren said.
“Tell him to talk rubbish,” Elfindi suggested to Talarren. “He’s good at that.”
“I’m also good at something else,” Perry added, “and that’s flogging insubordinate half-elves.”
Inside, Caspar sat quietly. Kron sat lost in his thoughts. Alex spoke excitedly about being Reswald’s rightful king. Talarren trotted on in advance as he occasionally did, keeping an eye on Esmay who circled above them.
“So, Alex,” Perry asked him through the canvass, “you are rightful heir to Reswald throne. You escaped death during the Norse invasion and you believe your father is alive. You have no idea what happened to your younger brother.”
Alex nodded. Kron continued from where Perry left off. “Your aunt kept a leatherbound family history including a history of Reswald. Before she died, she revealed this to you.” Alex nodded. “You believe this Charter of Reswald is hidden somewhere in Harrad Castle proving your legitimacy as Reswald’s true monarch, along with Title Deeds proving you are the legitimate owner of Harrad Castle?”
“There’s no putting anything past you,” Perry called through the canvas barrier.
“I can do without your smart comments,” Kron returned.
Razel shook her head. Kron nodded, acknowledging their common irritation with Perry’s sarcastic quips.
“No wonder he gets him
self into trouble,” Kron remarked.
“If he tries to mock me I’ll put a spell on him,” Razel said loudly.
Elfindi’s voice shot through the canvas. “No-one puts a spell on my friend.”
“Especially not Kron,” Perry said too loudly. “He doesn’t have a magical bone in his dwarvish body.”
“I wonder what would happen if you did cast a spell on Perry?” Kron asked Razel.
“You’ll have me to answer to,” Elfindi replied.
“Are we meant to be shaking in our boots now?” Kron said. He chucked to himself.
“If you know what’s good for you, you will be shaking in your boots,” Perry said. “Not only your boots, but your beard should quiver as if blown by a Norse wind. And Razel’s pearly white teeth should be chattering in fear, like a frantic hummingbird pecking at a tree.”
“You like your pretty little comparisons, don’t you?” Razel commented.
“Please stop,” Caspar commanded the quarrelling pair. “Your bickering is giving me a headache.”
“’Physician, heal thyself,’ isn’t that how the saying goes, Caspar?” Perry quipped, driving the horses forward.
Talarren had returned to hear their last snippets of conversation. He smiled. He knew his cleric friend’s next move. He was right.
From inside the wagon, while seated on his blanket covering the wooden bench away from Perry’s unsuspecting eyes, Caspar uttered a brief incantation. Moments later Perry felt a sudden seizing of his throat. Elfindi saw him speaking, but there was no sound. Perry was absolutely mute, despite his best efforts to talk. Once they realised what had happened, Razel and Kron smiled. Elfindi, on the other hand, resigned himself to Perry’s fate. He would be denied the banter he so enjoyed with Perry on long journeys. Perry seethed, unsure of how he would exact revenge.
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