The Duke pouted like a sulking child but his eyes told her he wasn’t serious. He skipped around the chamber, a mass of energy with no direct purpose.
“Let us drink!” he cried. “Let us drink to peppered eggs! The best restorative known to man.”
He took her hands in his and pulled her to her feet, intending to wheel her around while he sang a tuneless waltz. Carith resisted, claiming a headache of her own. She made to leave but returned to snatch up her precious pepper pot.
“These things don’t fill themselves,” she told him. “Go to bed, my darling.” She blew him a kiss from the door and was through it and had closed it again before he could send her one back.
The Duke’s good mood faltered upon his wife’s departure and the memory of the morning’s visit to that vile Smedlock threatened to surface again - like - like lumps in the wizard’s infernal broth.
Shuddering, the Duke returned to the window. He opened it and stepped out onto the balcony. He looked up at the clear night sky and imagined a fireworks display, describing the upward flights, the explosions and the dispersals with his hands, while blowing out his cheeks and lips to make the accompanying sounds.
Fireworks were the best thing he could think of. And soon - very soon, if that wretched, filthy wizard performed his task aright - the Duke would have genuine reason for celebration, and then the Principality would see the biggest and best display there ever was!
***
Smedlock hurried through the forest. A foul-smelling powder kept the wolves from troubling him and a dimly-glowing orb hovered in the air before him, lighting his way. The path to Tullen Spee was overgrown, almost lost for good, and several times the orb tried to lead him through tree trunks that now blocked the route. Diverting around an oak, the wizard’s foot splashed in a brook and he swore. The orb waited patiently for him to catch up and resume his intended course.
What he would find when he reached the ruins, he did not know. The navarin was all gone and there was nothing of Bradwyn left to flavour another batch.
Cursing his ancient legs and weary lungs, the wizard pressed on, deeper into the forest, having to swat fronds and branches from his face. A few years ago - well, a good many, truth be faced - he could have made the trip in seconds flat, soaring through the air. Age and infirmity pressed this more pedestrian method upon him, and until such a time as their effects could be halted and reversed, he was stuck with it, and had to shift himself as best and as quick as he could.
At this rate, he could be at the crumbling citadel by dawn. All the better to see what’s there for me to see, he reflected.
Onward, orb! And try not to lead me off any ravines or cliffs that may have come about since you were first made.
***
Gonda and the boy stayed where they were, high on the parapet, shrouded in shadow. The ancient wall shielded them from the westerly wind and, as long as the night remained a dry one, they would be comfortable enough. She encouraged the child to sleep but, while her own head was bobbing on her neck and she struggled to fight off slumber, whenever she looked at him, his eyes were open wide, staring both at and through her. It was unsettling to say the least.
“Get some sleep, kid,” she advised, turning away. She could still feel his eyes on her, like spots of heat on her skin. “Long way to go come the morrow.”
Not that she had a particular destination in mind but the greater the distance between them and the village, the better. Others would come, looking for those who had failed to return, and she would be more eagerly sought than before. A child-snatcher and now a mass murderer! Never before had the tending of geese seemed more appealing.
She made the boy lie against her so they could share body heat, cloaking him in her shawl. It still smelled scorched and singed from the house fire and she hoped it would not trigger nightmares in the boy’s sleep. If he ever got to sleep, that is.
“All right, kid, I give in; you keep watch and I’ll get the shuteye,” she decided. “And I can’t keep calling you kid. You must have a name - Can you tell me your name?”
She knew better than to wait for an answer that would never come. She permitted herself to drift off, feeling the soreness and tension leave her limbs and the cares of the day recede from her notice - albeit temporarily.
The boy watched his saviour sleeping. His face was blank and expressionless. There was no hint of curiosity in his eyes, no fear, no tiredness. He watched her, like the doll she kept from childhood on the chair beside her bed, its wide eyes unblinking, watching all, seeing nothing.
Nothing will disturb us - the boy was sure of that. Even the wolves will keep at bay. They will not enter this place to devour the bodies of the men who had flown so gracelessly over the wall.
He remembered the fire, its heat and its lights, the almost playful flicker and the smothering smoke. He remembered hands breaking through the flames and lifting him up and out of his cot. Then there was water and the chase. And now here they were, both a long way from home.
Several leagues away, Lughor was reading the stars and trying to get his bearings. In one direction lay the ruins of Tullen Spee; in the other, the palace at the heart of the Principality. Which one should he visit first? Which one would serve his ends best?
He tied up the horse he had acquired from the hamlet - the only thing to get out of that place with its life - and bedded down for the night. It was a decision that could wait until first light: the next step in his path to retribution and vengeance for his home town of Trysp.
Six
The first rays of morning sunlight stretched shadows across the courtyard, long, black fingers reaching for the parapet on which Gonda dozed and the little boy watched. He could neither define nor articulate it but the boy was experiencing a sensation of dread. He stared intently at the sleeping goose girl until she woke with a start.
“What? What is it? Have more men come?”
The boy did not reply. He turned his face from hers - very slowly; she followed the blank gaze of his doll’s eyes and peered over the parapet. Far below, the ground was dark with shadows and the blood of their pursuers, which was soaking into the cracks between the flagstones.
“They can’t hurt us now,” she said softly. It was also a reminder to herself. Those particular men were dead but others would soon be on their trail.
The boy let out a whimper like a frightened puppy.
“What? What is it?” She looked again, on her feet now so she could lean over the battlements. The boy was trying to tell her there was something else, something she had not picked up on. She put her hands on his shoulders and peered into his eyes. It was like peering into bottomless wells. “Don’t worry; we’re not staying. Now, if you have to pee, I suggest you do it now. I can’t be stopping on the way. Is that understood?”
The boy did not respond.
“Very well; I don’t have to go either. The first thing we’ll do, once we’ve put some distance between this place and us, is to find some water. And something to eat. I don’t know about you but I could bite the back legs off a scabby donkey.”
She laughed but the boy did not join in. She picked him up and picked her way down the winding staircase, having faith in her feet not to miss a step.
The boy gazed over her shoulder, unblinking, at the scene they were leaving behind. It was only when Tullen Spee was obscured by a dense wall of trees that Gonda felt him relax a little.
“That place gave me the creeps too,” she confided.
The boy rested his chin on her shoulder and wished he could tell her that wasn’t it. What he had seen and what the girl had failed to realise was that in the courtyard, among the shadows and the stain of the villagers’ blood, there was no sign of their broken bodies.
It was as if they had all got up and walked away.
***
While his horse browsed de
w-drenched leaves, Lughor pissed behind a tree. The decision was made: the palace could wait. His first stop would be the ruined citadel. He had woken up full of the idea. Something was drawing him there.
His fist tightened around the pendant. The little sword with the curved handle was vibrating ever so softly - I’m imagining things, he scoffed! Necklaces don’t vibrate.
In all the years he had had the thing, it had behaved like any other worthless piece of junk. It had just hung there, its only worth was as the final part of his disguise. Indeed, he could not pass as a member of the sect without it. The sect still commanded respect wherever he went in this realm or any other, even though it was no longer active.
All that business was over and done with long before I was even born. I have never even met a true member. I-
He remembered in a trice how he had come to acquire the little sword. There had been trouble in a tavern. Someone had elbowed his tankard. Soon after that, everyone was dead. Except for one. A scruffy fellow with a beard like an exploded bird’s nest was cowering behind an overturned table. A wizard. Lughor would have killed him twice if he could.
“Please, my son!” the wizard trembled. “Spare my life! Take this trinket and enjoy good fortune for the rest of your days.”
The hand that held out the tiny, golden sword on a thong of thin leather was mottled, gnarled and shaking. Lughor snatched the object and held it up. It was a delicate thing, impossibly detailed, the work of a master craftsman. He put it between his jaws and bit down.
Gold, he assumed!
It might fetch him a round of drinks in the next tavern. He slipped it into his pouch and raised his sword.
But the wizard was nowhere to be seen.
There was some truth in it, Lughor supposed. He had been inordinately lucky since he had pocketed the gewgaw. No one had succeeded in landing a single blow on him in all the fights he had - which were many and often. Well, they were not really fights; they were more like wholesale slaughter. Butchery! It was rather boring, in fact. He missed the cut-and-thrust of a proper set-to.
He spurred the horse on. Whatever was waiting for him at Tullen Spee had better be ready to put up a fight.
***
It wasn’t the first light of day that roused Broad Shoulders from his slumber but the delicious aroma of onions frying, wafting from the rear window of the farmhouse. He sat up, straining against the chain like a dog begging for treats. His stomach performed feats of acrobatics and he was drooling - Shade would be disgusted but by this time, he was back in the ring.
After several torturous minutes, the girl Droosa appeared with a platter covered by a cloth. “Good morning, boy!” she cooed at him as if indeed he were the family’s trusty mutt. Broad did not notice; his attention was entirely fixated on the plate.
At Droosa’s shoulder was her sister Philomeny with a basket of freshly baked bread rolls. “There’s a good boy!” She nudged Droosa aside and tossed Broad a roll. He snatched it from the air and tore into it with his teeth. Fine, he thought; I’ll play doggy if they’re going to keep feeding me.
Before long, he was surrounded by all seven of the farmer’s daughters, each of them vying for his attention with a variety of treats and sweetmeats.
“Here, boy!” insisted Carpella, the tallest of the brood.
“Over here!” cried Gartha, the smallest, dashing beneath her sisters’ legs.
Broad did not know which way to turn. The clamour of the girls brought their father from the house, pitchfork at the ready. With grunts and terrible oaths, he broke up the party. The girls retreated out of reach of his prongs but remained nearby, primping themselves and pouting at the youth in bids to secure his favour.
“Keep you away from him,” their father admonished, jabbing at the air between him and them. “By daylight, he is mine. Mine to tend the crops and mine to pull the plough.”
“But, Daddo!” exclaimed Bojanna, the prettiest of the bunch. “The boy has to eat to keep up his strength.”
“Yes!” the others chorused.
“She’s right, Daddo,” added Philomeny, nodding sagely.
“Won’t be no good to none of us if he don’t eat,” said Gartha.
“No!” cried the other half dozen in support of their sister’s assertion.
Their Daddo knew from long experience that to stand against the will of his daughters when they were all in accord (a rare occurrence!) was folly. He capitulated, nodding as if it was his idea in the first place. “Eat, lad,” he tousled Broad’s long locks. “There’s plenty to keep you occupied around here.”
Broad tucked into the offerings, each one as delicious and as welcome as the last. The farmer herded his daughters back indoors, reminding them they too had chores to carry out. He returned to find the lad sitting back, satiated and smiling, with breadcrumbs in his vest and jam around his mouth.
The farmer unhooked the chain from the peg and wrapped the end around his wrist.
“Going walkies, are we?” Broad laughed. “Honestly, sir, the chain is unnecessary. I won’t run away. I take my debts very seriously. How long, do you think, until I have worked off that rabbit?”
The farmer ignored him. He led the lad to a field that was leafy with turnips. “This lot needs gathering in,” he gestured broadly. “Fine, strapping lad like you; should be a piece of cake.”
Broad frowned. Turnip cake? That did not sound appetising in the least but then what he had sampled of the girls’ culinary prowess so far was encouraging.
It was backbreaking work. For every plant the farmer dug up, Broad did five. When a little cart was full of the bulbous, purple and white vegetables, the farmer called a halt.
Broad stood up straight. He arched his back and stretched his arms. “Is that it, sir? Have I done my rabbit?”
The farmer did not answer. Instead, he instructed the lad to wheel the cart to a shed near the house. “You can do the rest after lunch,” he announced, as if bestowing some great boon.
“Lunch!” Broad clapped his mucky hands together. “Lunch will be very welcome.”
It did not occur to him that he had already consumed many rabbits’ worth of food but the idea was beginning to take shape that he was likely to be spending more time on the farm that he had at first envisaged.
What about Shade? Shade could not go for long without feeding. In a sense, he was chained to the farm just as much as Broad.
The inviting smells of lunch greeted the youth as the farmhouse hove into view. He could not remember a time when he had been able to avail himself of such glorious home cooking.
He was sure Shade would be able to manage for another night.
Perhaps two.
***
While Broad was toiling in the turnip field, his erstwhile companion Lughor was approaching the ruined citadel of Tullen Spee. The tiny sword around his neck was throbbing - almost audibly now and when he clasped his hand around it to try to still it, it sent a shockwave through his body like the touch of an electric eel.
He dismounted and hitched the horse to a tree trunk. The undergrowth in this spot was too overgrown for him to go on in the saddle. Besides which, he did not know into what he might be leading the animal; I shall need the means to get away, he reasoned, practicality informing his actions rather than sentiment or concern for the wellbeing of something other than himself.
He hacked his way through dense fronds until he reached what remained of the perimeter wall and followed the stonework, furry with moss and slick with slime, until he came to an aperture, the collapsed arch of a gateway. His heart was racing - No! It was the trinket dancing against his breastplate. The sound would surely alert whoever - or whatever - was waiting for him. Be it friend or foe, Lughor wanted to find out for himself before making his presence known. He tucked the pendant into his shirt. The little sword was hot against his
skin.
With broadsword raised, he edged his way through the tumbled arch, his eyes darting in every direction. Every shadow could house a threat. Every movement of the intruding weeds could betray an ambush...
Lughor skirted the perimeter of a courtyard, pausing in the shade of a toppled tower to take in his surroundings, taking note of potential hazards and exit routes, and plotting strategic withdrawal as well as attack.
It was like playing chess with an unknown and invisible opponent. The layout of the board was unfamiliar and the rules of the game non-existent.
Something skittered across loose stones. Lughor froze. A deer ambled into view and out again. Lughor considered killing it. Is that why you have brought me here, he asked the trinket? For a venison roast?
I am going mad, he laughed bitterly to himself. Talking to jewellery.
As if to answer, the little sword grew hotter still, pulsating in an insistent rhythm against his breastbone.
What? What are you trying to tell me? Why have you brought me to this god- and people-forsaken place?
And then he saw.
He had not seen or heard them approach but there they were. Half a dozen broken men. Some had necks twisted at impossible angles. Limbs dangled, apparently useless. Some had skulls shattered like smashed pottery. They stood in a line, with their eyes locked on him. Each of them bore a weapon of some kind.
The little pendant sent a surge of heat to Lughor’s heart. He returned the stare of the dead men’s eyes and greeted them with a grim smile, tossing his sword from hand to hand.
“Come on then,” he said.
***
The Duke assured her he was feeling better that morning, well enough to ride out and perform whatever ducal duties needed doing. Carith, who had decided that it better suited her purposes to have her husband holed up in his apartment, was doing her utmost to persuade him that another day or two or three could only help him along the road to recovery.
“Any matters of weight arise and I shall consult you, my darling, but the day-to-day running of the Principality can take care of itself. People have been doing it for a hundred years, you know.”
Navarin, Thunder and Shade Page 5
