Navarin, Thunder and Shade

by William Stafford

  The wizard chuckled. “I should be offended! I have never poisoned anyone in my life. But you are interested in the ring?” He picked it up and held it up to the youth’s face. “Exquisite, is it not? Look at the tracery! See how delicate the hinge!” With a finger, he undid the clasp and showed Broad the interior, which was bright and gleaming, as if the ring were filled with light.

  “The inlay is pure goldinium,” the wizard boasted. “The rarest and most magical of metals.”

  Broad nodded, impressed. He had heard Haglin speak of it but this was the first time he had set eyes on it.

  “Where is he?” The question was almost casual. Pezzackeron twirled the ring in front of the youth’s eyes, making it sparkle and shine.

  “He’s dead,” said Broad. “His heart.”

  “Not the blacksmith!”

  “He was a good man,” said Broad. “He was kind to me.”

  “Oh, boo hoo,” sneered the wizard. “This is your last chance, boy. Tell me where your friend is and I shall let you go.”

  Broad struggled to keep Shade from his thoughts. As much as it pained him, he replayed the moment when Haglin keeled over, again and again. Tears coursed down his face. Was the smith lying there still? Or had kindly neighbours made the necessary arrangements?

  “That’s it...” Pezzackeron encouraged. “Think of the smith. Think of the smoke and the steam...”

  “No!” Broad struggled against it, focussing instead on Haglin’s face, twisting and grimacing.

  “Perhaps he was still alive,” suggested the wizard. “When you left him. Perhaps there was still a breath of life in him and then your friend snuck in and finished him off? Just a thought...”

  “No!” But Broad could easily picture the scene. Haglin lying helpless, on death’s doorstep, and Shade oozing in and helping himself...

  “NO!”

  “That’s right, boy. Think of him, feeding on the man you regarded as your father. Someone might have saved him but your friend put paid to that. He killed him! He fed on his soul and now you’re all alone in the world.”

  “NO!” Broad was sure it hadn’t happened like that but it was so easy to picture, so easy to think the wrong thing about Shade.

  Shade...

  “That’s it, boy! Summon him! Bring him to me!”

  “No!”

  And there Shade was, streaming down from the sky, looking full and opaque. As if he has just fed!

  “Get out of here!” Broad cried.

  “I’ll take you with me,” said Shade. “This pipsqueak has no power over me.”

  “We’ll see about that,” giggled Pezzackeron. He closed his eyes and uttered incantations in a language Broad had never heard. The effect on Shade was instantaneous. He stretched into a long, thin wisp and poured toward the ring on the wizard’s finger. He sent a pleading look to Broad for help but Broad was powerless. Within seconds, Shade was trapped in the ring. Pezzackeron closed the lid and cackled in triumph.

  “Let him go,” said Broad.

  “Or else what?” The wizard danced around the yard. The guards were puzzled. They did not know what they had witnessed but secretly they were grateful there were no body parts to clean up.

  “Release him,” Pezzackeron gestured at the youth. “He knows nothing; he is innocent.”

  The guards did as they were told; clearly, the wizard’s judgment was well-respected. Broad was confused. Why hadn’t the wizard killed him?

  Pezzackeron caught the question. He held up his ring and stroked it lovingly. And Broad understood. If he was dead, the wizard would have no bargaining power with the being inside the ring. Broad’s life was a means to control Shade and make him do the wizard’s bidding.

  “I’ll kill myself,” Broad said flatly. “And then Shade will kill you.”

  The wizard’s grin faltered but only briefly. “No, you won’t, my boy. From what I’ve picked up of the bond between you two, you will not subject your peculiar friend to a life of loneliness.”

  Damn it, thought Broad. He’s right.

  The guards offered to escort him to the exit. “You’re free to go,” said one. “I suggest you find a new town, if you get my meaning.”

  Reluctantly, Broad cast one last look at the ring on the wizard’s finger. “Goodbye, Shade,” he said.

  “Aw,” Pezzackeron pouted. He waved his hand as though bidding farewell to an infant. “Bye-bye, Broad Shoulders. Bye-bye!”

  With those broad shoulders slumped, Broad followed the guards across the quadrangle. Me and my stupid brain, he cursed himself. If I could have controlled my thoughts, Shade wouldn’t be here now and trapped on the finger of that madman.

  “Madman, am I?” Pezzackeron called after him. “I’ll show you who’s a madman, you ungrateful whelp!”

  He hurled an implement with a curling blade across the yard. It buried itself in the back of one of the guards, who fell to his knees, wide-eyed in surprise. The other guard drew his sword. Pezzackeron opened the ring. “Go!” he urged. “Feed!”

  Shade poured from the ring and formed in the air.

  “Don’t do it!” Broad cried. “Fly away!”

  “I can’t!” wailed Shade. “I am bound to the ring. It’s goldinium, you know.”

  “I know,” said Broad. “It’s very shiny but it’s just a ring.”

  “You don’t get it,” said Shade. “It’s where I live now.”

  “When you two have finished,” said the wizard. “Feed on that man before he dies.”

  “Don’t do it!” said Broad.

  “I am a bit peckish,” Shade admitted.

  “What are you waiting for?” cried Pezzackeron. “I’ve practically served him up on a plate.”

  The other guard did not like the way things were going. He had been against having wizards in the judicial service. What they said went, and he knew a wizard’s words could be bought, and innocent men would go to the gallows. And now this nutcase had tried to murder his co-worker. That was not on. Don’t worry, Callin, he looked to his colleague, you shall be avenged.

  He launched himself at the wizard, slashing with his sword. Pezzackeron tried to duck and counterattack with a ball of fire but the guard kept coming. The wizard screamed as his hand was hacked off at the wrist. The guard was engulfed in a sphere of green flame.

  “Don’t just stand there!” Shade groaned.

  Broad dithered on the spot. He took a couple of steps toward the exit and back again.

  “The ring, you twit!”

  “Oh!”

  Gingerly, Broad stooped and picked up the wizard’s severed hand.

  “You give that back!” Pezzackeron gasped, wincing in agony.

  “Rightio,” said Broad. He pulled off the ring and threw the hand in the wizard’s face.

  “Put it on!” said Shade, beginning to stretch out. Broad fumbled it onto his finger as his friend streamed into it.

  Pezzackeron was howling in rage and in pain. “I curse you, boy, and your damnable friend, too. May that ring never come off! May you two never be parted! May you never find a home again!”

  He collapsed.

  Broad closed the ring and shrugged. It didn’t seem like much of a curse to him. He stole out of the prison as guards poured into the quadrangle to arrest the ailing wizard for what he had done to their workmates.

  ***

  “And we’ve been together ever since,” said Broad, looking into the innkeeper’s eyes. “And we feel the power of the wizard’s curse every day.”

  The sun was almost down. The dying man shivered but not from the chill in the air.

  “Is... he...here?” he managed to say. “Your... friend?”

  “Yes,” said Broad. “Do you mind?”

  Shade stepped from the shadows. The innkeeper’s e
yes widened to see him. He nodded. “It will be an honour,” he said.

  Shade swooped over him.

  Nine

  Gonda watched the boy sleep. He was a picture of innocence - how could anyone think he was a - she hardly bring herself to say the word - a malgrim.

  Lughor watched the girl watching the boy. He stirred the rabbit stew he had put together. The glow of the campfire glinted off his armour.

  “Best thing to do would be to kill him,” he whispered. “Throw him on the fire.”

  Gonda was horrified. “How you could you suggest such a thing? Look at him!”

  “Don’t be fooled,” the warrior warned. “That thing will kill you as soon as look at you.”

  “But he hasn’t, has he? We have travelled many miles together and guess what: I’m still very much alive and kicking.”

  “That’s because he needs you,” said Lughor. “You’re his transport. You’re nothing more than an ass to him.”

  “No!”

  “Think about it...”

  Gonda thought. No, it couldn’t be true. There had to be more to it than that. She was not merely carrying the boy from place to place so he could wreak a malgrim’s havoc, leaving dozens upon dozens dead in their wake.

  She stood and approached the pot. “Smells good.”

  “Don’t change the subject. You ever seen him eat?”

  “Of course!” Gonda replied without thinking. But then she thought. She remembered handing the boy carrots and berries, having to press them into his hands and curl his fingers around them. But she could not recall him ever taking a bite.

  But he must have done!

  How else could he still be alive?

  “This is ready,” the warrior dipped a tin bowl into the broth. He handed it to the girl. “Now we’ll see. Wake him up and tell him it’s suppertime.”

  “I will.” She returned to the sleeping child and cooed. “Tiggy? Come on, Tiggy; get up now. This kind gentleman has made us some supper.”

  The boy did not stir.

  “He doesn’t know his name,” said Lughor. “Like an animal.”

  “Clearly, you never had a dog,” said Gonda.

  “You’re not helping your own cause,” the warrior laughed. “Boy! Wake up!”

  The child blinked and sat up. There was something eerie about the way he moved - Gonda chose to believe she was imagining it. It was the warrior’s fault, putting ideas into her head.

  “Here, Tiggy; have some.”

  She held the plate under his nose. His expression did not change.

  “Take the plate, Tiggy; there’s a good boy.” She pushed the plate toward him until his little hands took hold of the rim. “There you go. Now, have a sip; but careful now: it’s hot.”

  The child lifted the plate to his chin. Gonda sent the warrior a triumphant look. The boy dashed the plate to the ground and stared at her in cold-eyed defiance.

  “Oops!” said Gonda. “Accidents will happen. No harm done. There’s plenty more.”

  “Give it up, girl,” Lughor drew his sword.

  Gonda gasped and put herself between the boy and the blade. “Over my dead body,” she glared.

  “Ssh!” the warrior shook his head. He stalked away with his sword at the ready. Puzzled, Gonda watched him until he was swallowed by the shadows. There was the sound of a scuffle and then he returned dragging a figure along with him. He cast him to the ground. The figure squirmed and grovelled and begged for his life to be spared.

  “He’s been following us for miles,” said Lughor. “I don’t like being followed.”

  The man whimpered and looked up. Gonda cried in shock as his features were illuminated from beneath by the flickering fire.

  “Hello, girl,” said the man, holding up his hands.

  “Hello, Dad,” said Gonda.

  ***

  The Duke was in the palace’s tallest tower. From here he was afforded panoramic views of the Principality, and telescopes allowed him to see farther if he wished. The room was dominated by a circular table on which was spread a detailed map, with the palace at its centre. All this belongs to me, he could never stop marvelling. Or rather, I am its custodian. It is mine only in so far as I must pass on stewardship to my son and heir.

  His mood soured. How could he produce a son and heir when he and his wife slept in separate bedrooms? And I am not a young man - my fortieth birthday approaches at a gallop - and I want to be able to enjoy my children while I may. Carith, too, is beyond the first bloom of youth. These matters are more crucial for the female, of course. She only has a certain number of eggs in her basket.

  Speaking of eggs, he pressed a hand to his breastbone and squeezed out a belch that made him taste that morning’s breakfast all over again. Peppered eggs! How my wife insists I eat my peppered eggs! But, he reflected, it makes her happy, and keeping his wife happy was a good way to keep in her good books and perhaps, worm his way into her boudoir. He belched again, glad no one was around to hear it. Peppered eggs! They would surely be the death of him.

  He bent his eye to a telescope and surveyed the west of the Principality. Beyond the hamlets and the little towns lurked the woods that divided his land from the next. It was from this direction that Smedlock had said the thing would come. How the wizard knew this, the Duke could not say, for Smedlock’s ways were shrouded in mystery and foul-smelling vapours, worse than anything the peppered eggs could produce in the ducal digestive system. How it would get to the palace was also unknown. Someone will bring it, was all the infuriating wizard would say.

  “You mean you don’t know,” the Duke accused.

  Smedlock’s beard twitched as his mouth curled into something between a smile and a scowl. “All in good time, sire. All in good time.”

  The Duke shuddered as though to shake off the memory of their last meeting. He crossed to look out to the north. Beyond the rolling hills was the coast that protected the Principality. On a clear day such as this one, you could make out the lighthouses in faraway Ptorf, that warned ships to keep off the rocks and also served as beacons to signal the alert when enemy fleets approached the shore.

  Redundant now, the Duke mused, the lighthouses served only a sentimental purpose. They were historical remnants from a time when the Principality was besieged on all sides. The Duke had made the history of his land his constant study. Life must have been more interesting back then; in his lifetime he had known nothing but peace. He almost wished someone would start something, some barons would gang together and attempt to overthrow him, perhaps, or a foreign navy to come ashore and try to murder and pillage a path to the palace.

  No. The Duke did not seriously wish harm to his people or for war to come. What he wanted was a happy ending, to lie on his death bed with his heirs gathered around him, glad of a life well lived. And, holding his hand, his adoring wife, with streaks of grey in her hair and a few more lines at the corners of her eyes, wearing a brave face so that her husband, to whom she was devoted, would not see how her heart was breaking...

  Whoever was bringing the thing and from whichever direction, the Duke hoped they’d get a move on. He was anxious to give it to his wife, for surely such a special gift would solve all of their problems.

  She would not be able to resist.

  ***

  The Duke’s unsuspecting wife was at that moment pacing the floor in her apartment. She was impatient for the next couple of weeks to pass. The longer I have to wait, the more danger there is that things can go wrong, or that my husband will find out. I just have to keep the wool over his eyes for a while longer, she told herself repeatedly. Every day it gets a little closer and my time shackled to that imbecile draws to its end.

  She itched to move on. The Principality was too small to contain her ambition, but with the keys to its palace in her grasp, her next move
would be easier. She would be a more attractive proposition to the next ruler that stumbled into her sights. Bigger lands lay waiting outside her windows, bigger fish to fry. The Principality had been good for practice but why settle for a twig when you could have not only the whole tree but the entire forest?

  She called for Milassa to fill her a bath. It was something to do, to while away the rest of the afternoon before it was time for dinner with the twerp. He would probably try it on again - he never passed up an opportunity to suggest they get to work on starting a family. And she would have to trot out the same excuses and delaying tactics: ‘I’m not ready’ was wearing thin. Perhaps she should try another tack: it is the custom where I’m from for the bride to wait a whole year from the wedding day to consummate the union... Would he fall for that? He probably would. Carith Drombo could be extremely convincing when she had to be.

  Where I’m from... She sought to suppress memories of her homeland before they could surface and ruin what was left of her good mood.

  Milassa bobbed in a curtsey that signified the water was ready.

  “Very good. Stay and hum to me while I bathe. But no love songs, please; I couldn’t stomach a love song.”

  Milassa perched on a stool at the head of the tub. Carith lay back with a wet flannel over her face, enjoying the way the hot water soothed her limbs, taking out cares and tension she hadn’t realised were there.

  She recognised the maidservant’s tune as an old one. The Ballad of Tullen Spee. What a pity the girl could provide no words; a history lesson might have proved diverting.

  ***

  “I went to Tullen Spee first off,” Gonda’s father Glenward explained between sips of rabbit broth. “Went to see what had become of the men - and you of course, my sweet,” he sent a smile to his daughter just a little too late.