Navarin, Thunder and Shade

by William Stafford

  Title Page

  NAVARIN, THUNDER AND SHADE

  William Stafford

  Publisher Information

  Navarin, Thunder and Shade

  Published in 2016

  by AUK Authors

  an imprint of

  Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  Copyright © 2016 William Stafford

  The right of William Stafford to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  One

  The wizard was dead by the time they got there. He had put up a good fight; it was the green and purple blasts from his hands that had drawn them to the scene, the deadly flashes lighting up the woods and the evening sky like one of the Duke’s beloved fireworks displays.

  Broad inspected the wizard’s assailants - what was left of them - ragtag outlaws sprawled in a ring around the deceased magician. “He killed the lot,” he said, grimacing at the twisted remains. The attackers were contorted and scorched as though they had been hit by forceful fire.

  “There’s not a mark on him,” said Shade. “They didn’t get near him. Didn’t get the chance.”

  Broad raised a quizzical eyebrow; there was no need to give voice to the question.

  “What killed him?” Shade said it for him. “Exhaustion, I’d say. Must have used all his energy fighting off these rascals. He just ran out of life.”

  “Poor chap,” said Broad. “I wonder why he just didn’t turn them into frogs or something. Why did he obliterate them?”

  “They don’t do that frog thing really,” said Shade. “Perhaps he was protecting something. Something these fellows were after.”

  “So it wasn’t a random attack in the forest?”

  “You know I don’t believe in random,” said Shade. He gestured to the nearest outlaw corpse. Beneath the grime and tatters glinted the armour and insignia of the Duke’s men. Broad gaped; Shade was always the first to pick up on these things. “Have a look in his poke.”

  Broad approached the body and stooped over it, one hand on the hilt of his sword, just in case. The wizard was half-lying on the shapeless sack, his fingers clutching it, bunching the neck. Broad had quite a wrestling match on his hands before he could free the bag and peer inside.

  “Nothing.” He sounded disappointed.

  “Well, this is a waste of time,” said Shade. “I’d stamp my foot if I could.”

  Broad glanced at his strange companion. It was true: Shade was fading fast, was hardly corporeal at all. He was like smoke in the shape of a man, and the smoke was thinning, becoming transparent. Broad could make out the stripes of the tree trunks behind him. “And there’s nothing for you...”

  Shade managed to shake his head. “We were too late. He was long gone.”

  Too late to save the wizard. Too late for Shade to feed.

  Broad sprang up and did a quick tour of the outlaws. He found one slumped against the trunk of an oak, with breath still rasping through a hole where his throat used to be. “Here’s one!” he cried. “He might be enough for a snack.”

  Shade floated over as though wafted by a breeze. Broad turned his back and walked off; it made him uncomfortable whenever his companion fed. But we all have to eat.

  “Just don’t make that sucking noise,” he pleaded without turning around.

  “I don’t suck,” Shade was indignant. He swooped over the dying man.

  “Matter of opinion,” Broad muttered. He tried to think of something else while Shade replenished himself. He was being ungenerous; he knew that. If it was not for Shade, Broad would have died many years ago, but would death have been worse than being joined to the weird creature for the rest of his days? Sometimes, Broad thought it might not.

  “Hurrah!” cried Shade, turning cartwheels across the clearing. He bounced around, full of vim and vigour until a baleful look from his human companion prompted him to contain himself. He was always the same after a feed, so full of life. “His name was Jolf,” he reported. “He was in the Duke’s guard and was going to ask somebody called Rosahild to marry him. Well, I guess that’s never going to happen.”

  “What else? Was he in the know, this Jolf? Why was a pack of guards disguised as outlaws and attacking a wizard?”

  Shade shrugged. “Jolf was along to make up the numbers, to add a bit of muscle. He wasn’t party to the finer details.”

  Broad surveyed the scene again. Finer details. Absolute bloody shambles, more like, with emphasis on the bloody. The Duke was renowned for, among other things, his hatred of wizardry. Was that behind this attack gone wrong? Or was that the intended result, the death of the magician? Or was there something else?

  “You’re thinking again,” Shade teased. “I can tell. You get that crease in your brow.”

  Broad swatted at him and the backs of his fingers came into contact with something like lumpy fog. Shade was always more solid after a feed. He struck a pose.

  “Yes, yes, muscles, you said,” said Broad. “Very nice.”

  Shade stuck out his tongue. “They won’t last, I know. Not like yours, Mister Carcass of Beef.”

  But Broad did not want to be drawn into one of Shade’s bickering matches. He walked away so he could look back at the scene from a distance and try to take it all in as a whole, to picture the way it might have played out. The wizard had been surprised. Surrounded. These two blocked the path in front, those two must have crept up behind. These four must have dropped out of the trees...

  “We should get moving,” Shade advised. “While it’s still dark and I’ve got my strength - well, technically speaking, good buddy Jolf’s strength.”

  “Shouldn’t we bury them first?” asked Broad. “The wizard at least.”

  Shade pulled a face. His features were temporarily those of the late guard Jolf. “Waste of time. Let the wolves have them for supper.”

  “Doesn’t seem right,” said Broad. “Doesn’t seem respectful.”

  Shade let out a long-suffering sigh. Humans and their ways. “You’re too squeamish about your dead,” he scolded. “They are gone, all gone. What’s left is just meat. Honestly. Let the wolves benefit not the worms.”

  “But someone should say something, at least.”

  “What? Like don’t come back and haunt us? Don’t get up again? It’s hollow superstition; I keep telling you. Dead is dead is dead.”

  A howl, not as far off as Broad would have liked, settled the matter. They would get moving to avoid being an entrée for the banquet that lay waiting for the wolves. Instead, thought Broad, we shall be more of a running buffet.

  He paused to retrieve the wizard’s poke and, murmuring apologies, hurried after Shade who, with Jolf’s long strides, was already some distance ahead.

  ***

  Carith Drombo handed the bloodied dagger to an acolyte and climbed the spiral steps from the crypt. The secret of a good sacrifice was to make the splatter arc away from your body so that those spectating got a spectacular show but your laundry bills were minimised. Tonight
, the lamb had wriggled as if it sensed what was coming. Consequently, her robe was drenched. Her sleeve was steaming. It was going to stain like billy-o.

  Not my problem; not directly. The servants would be tasked with restoring the robe to pristine whiteness. They had until the next full moon when - oh, yes! The ceremony would progress from farmyard animals. The decennial renewal was just a month away.

  Cheered by this thought, she entered her apartment where Milassa had a bath already prepared. The handmaiden was waiting with towels and a blank expression. Her views of her mistress’s activities were kept to herself - made all the easier since the removal of her tongue. Those chosen to serve Carith Drombo were not permitted voices of their own.

  “Thank you, Milassa,” Carith let the robe pool around her slender ankles. She stepped into the copper tub. The water was at exactly the right temperature; Milassa had learned the hard way, as the scars on her back would testify.

  Carith lowered herself into the water and lay back, resting her head on a cushion. She let out a long sigh as the tension left her limbs. No one appreciated the work that went into performing a ritual sacrifice. It was theatre. It required discipline, concentration and muscle control. There was a lot riding on doing things right, did those fools but know it. And what did she get for her efforts? Not even a round of applause - not that that would be appropriate at a clandestine ceremony. The secret nature of the ritual added to the tension. No one outside the palace must know of it or there would be trouble, trouble she could do without. No one inside the palace either, for that matter. If the Duke had an inkling... She dismissed such concerns and, stretching her legs and arms and arching her back, she allowed the bath to work its restorative wonders. She nodded to Milassa to pour in another jug of hot water.

  Ahh...

  No one appreciates my sacrifice.

  ***

  Later, she was on the balcony looking out beyond the palace grounds to the Principality of Glaur, shrouded now in darkness. How small it seemed, how confining! Admittedly, it was an improvement on her last place, the village she had overcome and, eventually, slaughtered, which in its own turn had been a damn sight larger than the household she had murdered... Every time somewhere bigger, more throats to slit, more bellies to poison. It was a lot of work, moving up in the world, and Carith was not done yet. Around the Principality, there were kingdoms, just lying there, ripe for the picking. She would decide which one would fall to her charms first nearer the time.

  Just one month to wait! It was tantalisingly close. Four short, little weeks...

  “Oh, there you are, darling!” the Duke surprised her. She had been so caught up in her thoughts she had not heard him come in. He joined her on the balcony and pressed his luxurious moustache against her neck. “You smell delicious,” he whispered. “Like a bouquet.”

  She stepped back before he could pull her into a clinch. “Not tonight, dearest,” she said firmly. “I have a headache. The bath didn’t help.”

  The Duke, had she been facing him, would have been visibly downcast. He reached out to touch her shoulder but changed his mind. His hand hung in the air for a few seconds before he let it drop to his side. “It’s been a long time,” he said sadly.

  Carith closed her eyes, mastering her disgust.

  “Soon,” she said, looking out over the rooftops. “I promise you.”

  The Duke perked up a little. “Say you will dine with me at least. We shall have lamb tonight.”

  Carith’s stomach flipped. “I am sorry but no. I am unwell.”

  “Poor baby,” the Duke snatched her hand before she knew it was happening. “You should come indoors and lie down - alone, I mean, of course! I shall withdraw.”

  She awarded him a rare but brief smile. “You are so good to me,” she said, stroking his cheek with her free hand. He pressed his face against her palm, like a cat relishing its owner’s touch. “I think I will lie down.” She pulled away and strode indoors.

  “May I bring you anything?” he followed, eager to assist.

  “Darling, this place is crawling with servants.” She opened the door. “Milassa is just one room away.”

  The Duke pouted. “You see more of that dummy than you do of me, your husband!”

  “Which only serves to make our time together more precious! You do see that, don’t you, dearest?” She forced herself to take his hand and kiss it. A tingle shuddered through his body.

  “Yes, yes! Of course! But we have been married for almost a year and we have still to-”

  She pressed a finger to his lips. “I am a bad wife,” she said, sadly. “But soon, my love, you shall have everything - more than everything!”

  The Duke nodded rapidly, envisioning the treats in store. A glimpse of his wife’s cleavage caused a constriction in his throat. Carith pushed him from the room and slammed the door.

  Idiot, she cursed!

  “Goodnight, my love!” his voice came through the keyhole. “I hope you feel better in the morning.”

  Carith rammed the key in the lock, lest he watch her undress. She shivered; the memory of his touch was nauseating.

  Perhaps she should instruct Milassa to fill another bath.

  ***

  The cloaked rider knew his horse could not maintain its current speed for much longer. Flecks of foam were flying from the animal’s sweat-soaked hide. Mud from the country road splashed up as the hooves thundered along it. The rider urged the beast to keep going; they had many leagues to go and already the horse was flagging due to the size of the rider, for he was by no means a small or average man.

  A flash of lightning cracked the sky. The horse screamed and dropped dead.

  Great, thought Lughor, picking himself out of a puddle. He gave the corpse an ungrateful kick.

  The clouds burst, drenching him instantly.

  Just great.

  At least the mud would be washed off.

  He retrieved his belongings from the saddlebag and stole into the woods at the side of the road. The canopy would afford some shelter from the rain that was sheeting down like a wall of water. He pulled his cloak around him, and pressed his back against a tree trunk. Here he would wait out the storm and find another horse in the morning.

  It was going to be a long night.

  ***

  Deep in his cave, Smedlock was untroubled by the raging storm. He had known it was coming - the signs had all been there, weeks in advance, and so he was well-prepared with provisions and firewood. What he had not been prepared for was the loss of Bradwyn. The death of his brother wizard had come as a total surprise and an offence against nature.

  Perhaps because Bradwyn had not been murdered. Perhaps it was because Bradwyn had worn himself out in defence of - of what? That too was hidden from Smedlock. He consulted the pot of bubbling broth. Bah, it was too dark and smoky in the cave to be able to read anything. But at least the broth would be tasty. He gave it a stir. Bradwyn had taught him the recipe.

  Farewell, brother, Smedlock looked at the cave ceiling as if the dead wizard was up there. An ignominious way to go for a wizard, attacked in the woods. Where was the glory in that? How could one hope to build up a legend based on that?

  Smedlock slashed at his palm with the worn and dented blade of his knife. He squeezed his fist over the cooking pot so that drops of his blood - one, two, three! - dripped into the broth, sealing the vow.

  A sobering thought gave him pause.

  With Bradwyn gone, there are only three of us left. The brotherhood is almost extinct.

  No, said the navarin as he ladled out a bowlful. The chunks of carrot and the lumps of turnip formed a configuration that was unequivocal.

  There is another!

  Smedlock stirred the broth and watched the ingredients swirl. There it was again: there is another!

  Smedlock sl
urped at a spoonful, hoping the first taste would enlighten him further.

  Who, he asked? Who is it?

  But by this time, the navarin was nothing but a tasty meal.

  Two

  Just before the dawn, Shade slowed down. You could set a watch by him, Broad observed, if you could afford such a contraption. The energy Shade had absorbed from Jolf was gone now; it had powered his progress through the woods. Broad had to rely on his own strength, the power of his own thews to keep up with his companion, although he knew Shade could never stray too far - it was just not possible.

  Broad stopped. He was in desperate need of a piss and availed himself of the nearest tree. “Don’t you look!” he snapped at Shade. The smoky face contorted into a grimace. Shade was both fascinated and disgusted by the bodily functions of humans but he averted his eyes, unwilling to trigger a row.

  “Hey!” said the tree.

  Broad backed off in surprise and stumbled over a root. He landed on his backside on a heap of rotting leaves, still holding himself and still pissing.

  A portion of the tree trunk peeled itself away and stood up straight.

  “A - a - wood nymph!” Broad gasped.

  “Nonsense,” said Shade, who recognised another human when he encountered one.

  The tall figure lowered its hood, revealing a rugged face with a rough beard and a livid scar running from forehead to jaw, broken by the hollow of an empty eye socket.

  “I am Lughor of Trysp,” he announced in a voice like gravel rolling down a slate.

  Broad got to his feet. “I am Broad Shoulders,” he nodded.

  The cloaked man looked the youth up and down, taking in his muscular frame, his plaited hair and his open, trusting features.

  “Oops!” the young man giggled, buttoning himself away.

  “Forgive me if I do not shake your hand,” said Lughor. “I heard two voices.” His eyes darted in all directions. “You have a companion?”

  “Oh...” Broad shrugged the broad shoulders that lived up to his name. “I was just talking to myself. It can get kind of lonely, travelling alone.”