Navarin, Thunder and Shade

by William Stafford

Oh, well. Can’t be helped.

  Let the Duke ride out with an entire phalanx to protect him. They will be no match for me, for I have the strength of two hundred men. When I’m riled.

  He realised he was toying with the tiny sword that hung around his neck. The little, magical thing that was given to him by a wizard many years ago... What was its purpose? Why did he give it to me?

  Lughor had asked himself these questions many times and was no closer to finding the answers. All he knew was he was looking forward to the moment when he could ram it into some part of the Duke’s anatomy. It would be the cherry on the cake.

  The Duke must die! Well, you could say that about anyone for we all must pop our clogs at some point whether we want to or not. But the Duke must die at my hand - that’s the point. It shall be vengeance - of a kind.

  So, Lughor watched and Lughor waited, but the Duke did not emerge for several days. And then, late one afternoon, a side gate opened and two men in hooded cloaks stepped out. The identity of one was hidden in the shade of the garment but Lughor recognised the other from a distance for he wore his hood down, displaying the long hair that cascaded over and beyond his-

  Broad Shoulders! The warrior gasped. What was that idiot doing walking out of the palace? And who was that with him?

  Lughor decided to abandon his post and follow the pair instead, although the plain of Potlar afforded little in the way of cover.

  They walked without urgency into the heart of Grimswyck and kept going. Lughor sought to narrow the gap between him and them so he might hear their discourse but was wary of being too close in case the youth glanced around and spotted him. Even a cloudy-brained wooden-top like Broad Shoulders could not fail to remember the mighty Lughor.

  Nipping into doorways and stooping behind stalls meant Lughor only caught snatches of conversation - although it was apparent that the hooded fellow was providing much more of the chitter-chatter than the long-haired nincompoop.

  “I’ve been a frightfully good boy,” the hooded man said. “Waiting a whole year. I could have done this any night - at any time of day I chose, come to think of it - damn it - but I did not because I wanted to keep myself - you know...”

  “I don’t know,” admitted Broad.

  “You know: pure. Keep things special for my wedding night. Of course, I did not know that my wedding night was going to take place twelve bloody months after the bloody ceremony, did I?”

  “I’m guessing you did not.”

  “But now, with the anniversary only days away, here we are, twelve long, lonely months later, in the arse end of Grimswyck in search of an obliging woman of the night who will accept coin in exchange for cunny.”

  “I’m confused,” said Broad.

  “You know what cunny is, don’t you, my lad?”

  “Well, yes - well, no, actually. What I don’t understand is why, after twelve long, lonely months and your wedding night only days away, we’re here seeking out another woman.”

  “Ah, you see, I’m not here because I want to be. You see, my father died.”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  “No, my father died before he could instruct me in the ways of the boudoir.”

  Broad blinked. “Is that some kind of woodland animal?”

  “It’s a bedroom for posh people.”

  “And you wanted your father to show you?”

  “Well, not him personally, you understand - although I’m beginning to doubt that you do. You see, when I reached majority - by which I mean I was old enough to shave - my father would have brought me here. Or would have fetched one up to the palace.”

  “A barber?”

  “No, a woman.”

  “A hairdresser?”

  “No! Well, all right then, yes. A woman who could show me how to - dress hair. So I could make my eventual wife happy and sire a few heirs. You see, that’s the nub of the matter. I want to be sure I know what I’m doing so I can make my wife happy. I don’t want her to be disappointed.”

  “With your nub?”

  “I beg your pardon!”

  “Your wife’s is lovely.”

  “How dare you!”

  “Always shining, it is. Glistening.”

  “Boy, I am warning you - Oh!” it occurred to the Duke wherein lay the youth’s error: he continued to think they were talking about hair. He chuckled and slapped Broad Shoulders on his far-from-narrow arm. “This looks a likely hole.”

  They had arrived at a rundown shack at the end of a row of similar hovels. A green kerchief affixed to the doorpost signalled the trade of the occupant within. Broad stepped ahead of the Duke to knock the door but the Duke stayed his arm.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Broad stammered. “I should look the place over, at least. The hole - I mean, the house.”

  The Duke shook his head. “I’ll be fine. There are some things that require privacy and this... transaction is one of them. You wait out here and stand guard. I’ll be out in two shakes.”

  “And what about the back door?”

  The question threw the Duke but then he laughed and patted his youthful bodyguard on his bare biceps. “All will be well. Frankly, I think the element of risk adds an extra frisson, don’t you?”

  Broad shrugged. He supposed he might think so if he knew what one was.

  The Duke rapped the door with his knuckles. A flap opened at head height and two eyes peered out. The flap shut again and then the door opened and the Duke stepped inside.

  Broad turned his back, at something of a loss. He looked up and down the street. “It’s all right,” he called, “you can come out now.”

  No one replied. Broad rolled his eyes at being remiss and tried again, this time with the addition of Lughor’s name.

  For a moment, nothing happened and then, rather sheepishly for such a big man, the warrior stepped from the shadows.

  “Hello,” grinned Broad. “You’ve been following me for ages.”

  Lughor frowned; he did not like being caught out. “You knew?”

  “Of course I knew! You’re like an elephant trying to hide in a dog’s kennel. I would have said something sooner only the boss...” He nodded at the door to the shack. Lughor looked at it with keen interest, almost as though he could see through it to what was transpiring within.

  “What’s he like?”

  “Women and hunting, mainly.”

  “I mean what’s his nature? Is he a good employer?”

  “He’s all right,” Broad shrugged. “Once we got past the whole wanting-me-hanged bit.”

  Lughor glanced around. “Just you, is it?”

  I could do it now, he thought. Unleash the two hundred and tear the Duke to shreds, no doubt taking out half of this district into the bargain - but...

  “On the face of it, yes,” Broad winked. He held up his ring. “You remember this?”

  “Yes,” said Lughor. That was what was stopping him. The boy had a mysterious companion; Lughor did not know if he could withstand an assault from whatever-it-was or if his tiny sword pendant would protect him. Opening the ring might lead to something more devastating than a can of worms.

  No, the only way was to get the Duke on his own... but how?

  Sudden commotion from within startled them both. Broad shouldered the door in and rushed inside. Lughor followed, having to duck his head to avoid bumping it.

  The Duke was standing on a bed with his hose around his ankles, trying to fend off an attack from the lady of the hovel who was wearing the green sleeves that denoted her occupation and, more pertinently, was brandishing a large knife.

  “Now, my dear,” the Duke was making conciliatory gestures to placate the woman. “I’m sure we can come to a perfectly amicable arrangement.”

  “Pr
oblem?” grunted Lughor. The Duke glanced at him.

  “Who’s this? Your procurer?”

  The woman looked scandalised by the idea. “I’m an independent businesswoman,” she asserted. “And you’re the Duke so you can afford to pay over the odds.”

  “As I told you when I entered - the house - I only look like the Duke. I certainly don’t have his spondulicks.”

  The woman looked him up and down. “I can see that from here.”

  Blushing, the Duke pulled down the hem of his shirt.

  “Here, what’s this?” A gruff voice behind them issued from a mouth brimming with gold and silver teeth. The new arrival looked the three men over and chose to address his enquiries to the woman. “Hoi! Phookie! What have I told you? We don’t give discount for party bookings.”

  He didn’t say any more but his eyes rolled upwards as Lughor’s giant hand clamped on his head and lifted him from the floor.

  “One shake,” rumbled the warrior, “and your neck snaps. Your head might even come off. Shall we see what happens?”

  The man whimpered. His breeches darkened with a release of urine.

  “Bravo!” the Duke clapped, and then pulled his shirt down. “Well done, big fellow.”

  The woman - Phookie - was scowling enough to wither a broomstick. She spat on the floor, probably giving rise to a clean spot. “I haven’t got time for this. I’ve got a business to run. I can do you hand or mouth as long as you don’t muck about.”

  “The Duke is just leaving,” intoned Lughor.

  “Duke look-alike,” said the Duke.

  Phookie cackled. “He doesn’t know if he’s coming or going.”

  “He’s going,” said Lughor. He dropped the gold- and silver-toothed man on his backside. “Come on, Your Grace.”

  “Your Grace-alike!”

  Without further ado, Lughor picked up the Duke and tucked him under his arm. “Pay the lady,” he instructed Broad and carried His Grace, bare-arsed and wriggling, out into the street.

  “How much?” Broad fumbled with a coin pouch.

  “Ten corons,” Phookie held out her hand. “You’re a bit of all right, aren’t you? Go on; I’ll let you muck on my tits if you want. On me.”

  “Where else would they be?” said Broad, turning as pink as a scalded pig. He backed out of the shack, his embarrassment doubled by the woman’s laughter and, out in the street, by that of Lughor and the Duke, who now seemed to be good friends.

  “My stars!” the Duke gasped for breath. “That was quite an adventure, what!” He gave Lughor’s arm a punch; it was like thumping a tree. The Duke failed to mask his pain. “I say, big fellow, I think I can find work for you up at the palace. What do you say?”

  “What kind of work, Your Grace?”

  “Why, looking after me, of course. I mean, Broad Shoulders is excellent and all that but even he can’t work around the clock.”

  “It’s true,” Broad confirmed. “I think it’s a great idea.”

  The warrior’s face cracked with a grin. “So do I,” he said, already imagining his first opportunity of being alone with His Grace. “So do I.”

  Twenty-Two

  Atop the craggy castellation of the ruins at Tullen Spee, three figures met. The moonlight gave them all an equal glow on their hooded heads and their cloaked shoulders but that, and the fact that they were all wizards sharing a single purpose, was about all they had in common.

  The tallest was Tarkwayne; he considered himself above the others in more than just the literal sense. The other two were necessary evils for the project to succeed, for Tarkwayne could not take over the world alone. They were to be endured - but only up to a point. The goal achieved, Tarkwayne would make his next project their removal.

  To his right stood bald Pezzackeron, glowering at his brother wizards. Similar hatred boiled in his blood. As soon as this was over, he would despatch the other two and be sole ruler. But for now he must smile and play his part. There was dread work to be done.

  Of the three, only smelly, dishevelled Smedlock suspected the other two of treacherous designs. He had seen their true desires in a bowl of pottage - it is easy to discern the fell motives of others when they match one’s own. I shall have to watch my back while I am seeking to plunge my daggers in theirs, he smirked.

  In turn they reported the success of their several missions. The invisible walls were in place and ready for action at Herran’s Polp, Lurkin Mount and Ptorf.

  “It is well done, brothers,” Tarkwayne smiled with a condescending pout. “But tell me, did you not...” His words trailed off; he thought the question perhaps a foolish one.

  “Did we not what?” said Pezzackeron.

  “Spit it out, man!” snapped Smedlock, who had no patience for Tarkwayne’s melodramatics. Tarkwayne was struggling to complete the question - it was tantamount to admitting a weakness.

  “Did you not - sense - get that feeling - of being watched?”

  Pezzackeron and Smedlock eyeballed each other, reluctant to speak.

  “Like there was a presence? Something there? Had I not known of his death, I might have been tempted to say our brother Bradwyn was prowling around. That was his style.”

  “Our brother’s dead,” said Smedlock. “I saw him. He was dead as can be. And pretty tasty too, with the right seasoning.” He snickered to see the look of disgust wash across his remaining brothers’ faces.

  “You don’t think-” Tarkwayne hesitated. “You don’t think there’s someone else? When you were putting up the walls, did you not sense it as I did?”

  Pezzackeron looked absently at the sky while Smedlock looked intently at his own feet. Tarkwayne was encouraged. He took their silence on the matter as confirmation.

  “There was...” Smedlock began, “...a lot of seagulls.” He chuckled. “Good eating on a seagull. Mind, I like them raw with their hearts still beating.”

  “Revolting,” said Tarkwayne.

  “Disgusting,” said Pezzackeron.

  “Suit yourself,” shrugged Smedlock.

  “I think,” said Tarkwayne, “now the moon is at its zenith, we should begin.” With a swish of his cloak, he stalked away, descending a spiral staircase to the courtyard. The others looked at each other and pulled faces.

  “Who does he think he is?” grumbled Pezzackeron.

  “The biggest turnip in the pot,” said Smedlock. And, he added to himself, turnips get eaten.

  They joined the big turnip on ground level and stood in a triangle, their backs to the direction of the three distant points: the Polp, the Mount, and the lighthouses. Tarkwayne, taking the lead, nodded. The wizards extended their arms, placing the palms of their hands against each other. Pezzackeron had a prosthetic fashioned from silver - it should fetch a pretty penny, Smedlock mused. Afterwards.

  They began the incantations with Tarkwayne’s voice a piercing treble. The others provided baritone and bass accompaniment. Smedlock closed one eye, trying to listen out of one ear. The harmonics had to be pitch perfect; the resonance was as important as the words.

  For hours they sang, making the triangle bigger by degrees. Their hands parted but beams of light linked them like bright ribbons. Power coursed along their arms and through their bodies, down their legs and through the soles of their feet and into the ground, warming the mossy flagstones. The chants had gone on for so long, it was as though the wizards had never done anything else, as if it was as natural as breathing and just as vital to their continuing existence. Around them, a wind swirled, snatching at the folds of their robes, whipping their hoods against their faces, carrying their voices to all corners of the citadel.

  Eventually, the sky lightened as deep blue was replaced by thin grey. Tarkwayne staggered, breaking the connection. It took Pezzackeron the longest to realise the chanting had stopped. Breathing heavi
ly, the wizards looked at each other and at the broken bits of building being revealed by the growing light.

  Everything was the same. Nothing had changed.

  The spell had failed.

  ***

  Tarkwayne sat on a piece of fallen masonry and held his head in his hands. “I don’t know where it went wrong,” he repeated. “Everything was in place. Wasn’t it?” He turned accusing eyes on the other two.

  “Yes!” said Pezzackeron and Smedlock as one voice.

  “Then I don’t understand!”

  Oh, dear! Smedlock smirked. Let’s not have tears on top of everything else.

  “It just doesn’t add up!” Tarkwayne paced the flagstones. “We did everything right.”

  “Actually,” said Pezzackeron. “I think you were a little pitchy.”

  Tarkwayne was aghast. “I most certainly was not. How dare you! If anything, you were a little sharp!”

  “Bollocks I was,” snapped Pezzackeron. The two looked set for a fully-fledged squabble but Smedlock intervened.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he stepped between them with a placatory gesture. “We did everything right and in the right order. We did, however, forget one thing.”

  “Did we?” frowned Tarkwayne. “Unlikely.”

  “What?” said Pezzackeron. “And why didn’t you mention it before, you festering bag of shit?”

  “The final ingredient,” Smedlock ignored the insult, “is the spilling of life’s blood on the spot.”

  “Ah!” Tarkwayne nodded.

  “Is it?” Pezzackeron wrinkled his nose.

  Again, Smedlock ignored him. “Yes, gentlemen,” he said, “It is.”

  He spun around on the spot, the sleeves of his robe fanning out. Then he stood still with his sickle dripping and the other two staring at him in shock. Their hands wandered to their throats as gashes yawned open and the blood glugged out. Wide-eyed, they toppled, clutching at their wounds, grasping at the traitor’s robe.

  They died.

  Smedlock wiped the blade on his sleeve.

  “Bravo! Bravo!” A man stepped from the shadows, clapping gauntleted hands. He was wearing the burnished armour of a monarch but the silver circlet around his head was modest and unadorned, for Argolef the Seventh of the Eastern Realm was not one for ostentation - at least when he was sneaking around in what he considered to be enemy territory. He clapped the wizard on the shoulder and his grin stretched his lengthy, braided moustaches of blue hair. In the cold morning light, his skin also took on a faintly bluish hue, denoting the purity of his eastern lineage.