A Foolish Wind: The Oak Knower Chronicles (The Druids, Dragons and Demons Series Book 1)

by Andy Roberts

Despite the ringmaster’s best endeavours, Lanista Belb was nowhere to be found. The maddened crowd joined in the search for the treacherous fight-master, calling loudly for the heads of all those involved. Many of the older generation sat in quiet contemplation, sharing knowledge rather than anger, knowing fully well that the terrible events of the day might plunge Randor into another brutal war. A runner had been dispatched to notify Chancellor Gelfroy’s office and the Oval was already on full lockdown.

  Brae had hurled the bottle of spiced wine with all the force his scrawny arm could muster. Even with the pie-man grabbing at him as he helped himself from the underside of the cart, he’d managed to save the child’s life, an angry Vaspar Gendrick leaving only moments later.

  The pie-man had threatened him with violence, quickly turning his attention elsewhere when the cart was spilt and his pastries trodden flat in the clay. Brae doubled back on himself, headed towards where the hidden exit should be and was almost there when he saw the custodian stood on the other side of the gates, a look in his eye and a book in hand. Doss pulled at the heavy ironwork and called for the guard when it wouldn’t budge. The man promptly refused and the two argued the matter angrily.

  Brae ducked out of sight and squeezed his way through. Someone pushed and another knocked him to the floor with a single blow to the bridge of his nose. He squealed with the burning pain of it and wiped at his watering eyes; tried to get up but couldn’t, a pitter-patter of blood raining warm, thick and sticky on the back of his hands. He cleared his head and crawled through a forest of legs, the tips of his fingers skinned by more than one wayward boot. The rusted storm-drain was just ahead, but at his rate of progress, Brae worried that he wasn’t going to get anywhere near it alive.

  ‘He’s never late for anythin’.’

  ‘Where else does he go?’ Tamulan asked. ‘Besides the library.’

  Griff thought a while. ‘Likes to watch the ships come and go at the dock sometimes. Has as a thing about the ocean, so he does.’

  Tamulan checked the busy street one last time, and with the smithy’s apprentice still nowhere to be seen, asked to be taken southside.

  Fishermen emptied large, lobster pots into troughs of cold brine, returning frequently to the harbour wall to offer smaller crustaceans another season of growing time. Several old women shuffled on the dock, bartering loudly, setting and re-setting head-scarfs that blew about like brightly coloured flags on the sea breeze. They picked through the fresh catch unperturbed by the snapping claws, their own bony appendages working equally as fast. With their choices made, the women tossed a handful of dirty coins into a communal bucket, happy with their evening’s main course.

  A large merchant vessel steered its way in from the Wandering Depths, its weather-beaten crew working to near-exhaustion to avoid beaching on the nearby shallows. Seabirds flocked, welcoming the ship to Randor, calling excitedly, adding to the chalky-white crests that marked its tall masts. Gulls rode the turbulent wake, bobbing on the churning water, drawn there by jewels of sunlight that mimicked the frenzied movements of shoaling fish.

  ‘Impressive.’ Tamulan rounded the harbour-master’s hut and set eyes on the rugged coastline for the very first time.

  ‘That it is,’ Griff agreed staring into the distance as though searching for something he just couldn’t find. ‘Never get tired of seein’ it, so I don’t.’

  ‘A man would be a fool if he did.’ Tamulan straightened Windsong with a couple of hefty shrugs. ‘I don’t see him?’

  Griff dragged his gaze from the ocean and checked for himself. ‘How much does he know?’ He returned his attention to the horizon-line and a land that couldn’t be seen from so very far away.

  ‘That he was born in Solta and not Randor?’

  Griff rested on an iron piling and pulled his coat close. He sighed and listened to the sounds of the Wandering Depths lap against the harbour wall. ‘Home of the druids, so they say, but I’d guess you’d know that already?’

  Tamulan nodded slowly. ‘Our kind are all but gone—taken by the Dragon Lord.’

  ‘And is it revenge you seek?’

  Tamulan let his breath out quickly. ‘Your brother has made it far more complicated than that.’

  ‘He’d never have done such a stupid thing if he’d known?’ The druid didn’t answer. ‘Used to bring all sorts back from the library: maps and the like. Asked Pew once, how much wood he’d need to build a ship.’ The innkeeper sniffed and shook his head. ‘Lately, I think he’s been learnin’ a new language—his mother-tongue perhaps?’

  Tamulan watched a young girl walk among the busy fishermen, good looks and a shock of red curls bringing her all sorts of unwanted attention. A pair of old sailors in an even older dory called to her and made lewd suggestions, the swells of the sea threatening to consume their small rowing boat as a suitable punishment for their ungentlemanly conduct. The girl came away from the edge of the harbour wall and approached a small group of passing students. They gave her a stern look and not a thing more. She moved on to someone else and then another, each time receiving the same angry response for her efforts. The girl wilted, unbuttoned her robe and removed it. She lowered her head and let the heavy garment trail from her clenched fingers as the call of the ocean overwhelmed her.

  ‘You’re not listenin’.’ Griff got up. ‘Don’t know why I bother.’

  ‘I’m listening.’ Tamulan had lost sight of the girl and was now unable to find her again. ‘He’s not learning Soltesh.’

  ‘So what is it, then?’

  Tamulan pointed towards a body of water funnelled between the coastline of Randor and an offshore island of volcanic rock. ‘He seeks what lies beyond.’

  Griff stared at it. ‘Nuthin’ lies beyond.’ At the neck of the narrow channel, a pair of colossal figures rose tall from the rock—two Gods reaching across to one-another, their right hands locked in a never-ending battle of opposing wills. On the shoreline stood Amaethon—a bearded man clad in a simple, white robe. Opposite, and sculpted from black, volcanic rock was Lodan, a horned foe who goaded Amaethon with his forked tongue.

  ‘It’s where my people took the Dragon Lord.’

  ‘Not possible.’

  ‘Brae knows it to be true.’

  Griff danced with irritation and jabbed at the statues. ‘They wouldn’t let you through even if you tried. Amaethon refuses return passage to all those with immoral intent, while Lodan stands in the way of righteous folk. It’s a perfect combination.’

  Tamulan was inclined to agree. ‘But there’s always a way.’

  ‘Bollocks there is.’ The druid didn’t hear him, preoccupied suddenly with a gathering further along the harbour wall. People pointed and a fisherman threw a rope into the water only to haul it in almost immediately. Tamulan made his way towards them, the innkeeper following close behind.

  ‘Poor girl threw herself in.’ The old woman moved with the agitated mannerisms of one of the captive lobsters, her fingers pinching at the air as she struggled for words.

  ‘Pretty too,’ said one of a pair of sailors. His crew-mate nodding in agreement. The old woman gave them both a disapproving look and patted the top-cloth over her escaping goods.

  ‘Well you can’t leave her in there,’ Griff said as the maroon robe turned on the tide and headed out to sea. Most of the onlookers shrugged their shoulders and wandered off. A few stayed, but only to watch the spectacle in expectation of a grim finale. ‘Get her then,’ he shouted at the druid.

  ‘I told you I don’t like water.’

  ‘Do some magic then.’ Griff hopped about like a cat on a hot tin roof, trying to kick the boot free of his foot.

  ‘You think I’m a circus act?’

  ‘The prize of clown goes to me, as always,’ Griff said scowling at everyone as he threw his coat to the floor.

  Tamulan grabbed for his arm. ‘It’s too cold. It’ll kill you.’

  The innkeeper pushed him away. ‘I’ll let Amaethon decide,’ he said and hurled himself into the
ocean. The sudden cold punched the breath from his body and instantly made his head pound. Instinct told him to swim for the surface, but instinct can sometimes be a dangerous ally. He knew better than to fight and struggle, that to do so would likely cause him to cramp up and drown. For a while, he did nothing more than calm himself and slowly resurface. With his breathing under control, he took a lung-full of air and kicked for the bottom.

  The girl lay almost motionless, her arms floating outstretched in the shape of a crucifix, toes resting gently on the rippled sand. Her hair spread and swayed in the strong current like a field of red sea-grass, her lips purple, tiny bubbles breaking free of her mouth as she watched him through sightless eyes. Griff caught the girl’s head with both hands, put his lips to hers and gave her his air. A shoal of fish arrived out of the deeper gloom, scattering in all directions as the innkeeper took her by the waist and pushed for the surface. Bursts of light and colour danced above him, the muffled sounds of activity growing louder and more distinct. A crazed drummer beat a speedy time signature deep inside his aching head—one that matched perfectly the pounding in his tight chest. The current pulled at him, insisting that he join it on its travels. He kicked hard and broke free of the watery grave, gasping and unable to call out for help.

  One of the fishermen threw a length of oily rope that slapped Griff’s scalp like a heavy hand. He tried to loop it over the girl’s head and fix it under her arms but the cold bit savagely at his fingers, rendering them almost useless. ‘Let it float,’ the man called. Griff felt his grip on the girl waning but with one last effort, he managed to duck them both beneath the noose and resurface within the open loop. The fisherman took the slack and called for the others to ‘heave like good uns.’ Griff growled as the rope cut into his flesh. He prised his forearms between its rough fibres and the girl’s limp body, protecting her as best be could, skinning himself raw in the process. The salt stung his arms: stung his eyes, but he knew he was half-way there to saving her.

  Tamulan crouched over the limp body, a crowd of people standing in a ring around them. He rolled the girl onto her front and pressed on her upper back with a rhythmical motion until a splash of salty water spewed from her mouth.

  ‘Don’t you let her die,’ Griff warned through chattering teeth.

  ‘She’s already dead.’ The fisherman turned and walked away.

  ‘The cold will protect her brain,’ Griff said. ‘Brae told me so.’

  ‘We have to get her inside.’ Tamulan stopped rocking every so often to share his air, just as Griff had.

  ‘You’re doin’ it too slow,’ Griff told him. ‘She’ll be good for nuthin’, so she will.’ The girl coughed and vomited pink froth. The druid scooped her off the hard floor and headed towards the harbour-master’s hut.

  ‘He’s not in,’ one of the fishermen said. ‘Saw him in the market not more than an hour ago.’ Tamulan held the girl draped across both arms and took his boot to the weather-worn wood. It splintered with a noisy crack, offering little resistance to their forced entry.

  ‘Not you,’ Griff shouted at the onlookers. ‘Fetch blankets and dry clothes from the market.’

  Tamulan beckoned the woman with the lobster supper. ‘You only,’ he said kicking the door closed behind them.

  A log burner sat cold and idle in the far corner of the empty room. Tamulan placed the girl on the bare boards and told the old woman to strip her. She set about her task without argument, checking frequently that an acceptable level of privacy was maintained at all times.

  ‘I’m freezin’ to death,’ Griff said fighting to get out of a pair of wet trousers that clung to his leg like a limpet. Tamulan rubbed his hands slowly and offered the glowing ember. Griff shook his head. ‘The girl first,’ he just managed to say. Tamulan gave it to the old woman, reassuring her that it would do no harm. He repeated the process and placed the second ember in Griff’s hands, holding it there until the innkeeper was able to control his own fingers. The druid moved quickly now, two lives hanging by a thread. He opened the door to the log burner and set a fire that brought a spreading glow to the room. He took the naked girl and lay her in front of the log burner just as someone came and lobbed an armful of blankets inside the hut.

  ‘There’s more coming, and dry clothes,’ the woman’s voice called. Tamulan covered the girl and kept one of the blankets for Griff. He kneeled and lay his hands on temples that were as cold as death itself. He let her draw his body-heat as easily as she had earlier taken his air. But this wasn’t as easy as sharing life’s breath, done incorrectly he too could succumb to the pernicious cold. Tamulan felt himself shake, his heartbeat slowing. He was reaching a critical point and would have to break away soon. The girl stirred and opened her eyes. She was groggy, confused, but against all odds—still alive.

  Chapter

  — 10 —

  ‘We’ll be on our way,’ Tamulan told the old woman. ‘Keep her inside a while longer and get word to the university.’

  The girl sat next to the fire, knees tucked under her chin. ‘You’re not leaving me here,’ she said and meant every word it.

  ‘You’re alive, dry and warm.’ Griff buckled his belt and folded the surplus under itself. ‘What more do you want from us?’

  ‘I’m coming with you.’ The innkeeper gave his head a firm shake. ‘Then I’ll do it again.’ He banged the crutch hard against the boards in temper, the sound echoing throughout the small cabin like a gunshot. The girl flinched. ‘I will,’ she said defiantly. Griff went to the door and flung it wide-open, swinging an arm by way of invitation. The girl got to her feet, unbuttoning a dry cardigan as she made for the exit.

  ‘Stop her.’ The old woman was at it again, pinching the air in a state of agitation.

  ‘I have a name,’ the girl shouted and came to an abrupt halt. ‘I’m not her or she. I’m Philomena.’ She returned to the fire and warmed her hands as she calmed herself. ‘Frightfully old fashioned don’t you think? Most people call me Philly.’

  ‘Why did you do it?’ Griff asked. ‘You’ve got money, breedin’ and education. That’s more than most around these parts.’

  Philly sniffed. ‘Had, have and had,’ she said in quick succession. ‘Had money, have breeding … had an education.’ She composed herself as best she could. ‘My allowance was stopped when the professor put an end to my classes.’ She shrugged with a silent finality and offered no further explanation.

  ‘And just why would he do that?’ Griff asked with a manner that was a good deal too urgent.

  ‘I suppose he didn’t approve of me.’ Philly looked away, not nearly as bullish now. Griff grabbed her arm and pulled at the woollen fabric of her sleeve. He saw no bruising, or welts at the bend of her elbow. ‘Pills,’ she told him, sparing the need to search further. She saw the look of disapproval on his face and knew exactly what he was thinking. ‘Don’t judge me,’ she said. ‘You’d have no idea of where to begin.’

  Elba Doss swept the sharp knife in one swift movement. The guard didn’t notice at first and continued to argue with him. By the time the man felt faint and realised that something was terribly wrong, it was already too late. He reached to his groin and patted at the warm stain that pulsed against his fingers. He swayed and tried to make sense of the puddle at his feet—pondered it to the point of failure, whereupon he gave up and fell to the floor, dead.

  Doss took the nearest ticket-seller by the scruff of the collar. ‘Lord Gendrick?’

  The man wore a nervous expression and didn’t dare offer his grubby hand for reward. ‘Left before the first match finished, sir.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ Philly asked.

  ‘I said she wasn’t to come.’ Griff pounded on ahead, trying his best to ignore her.

  ‘You’re responsible for me now,’ she told him, running to keep up. ‘Where you go, I go.’

  ‘We’re looking for someone,’ Tamulan said.

  Griff spun. ‘Don’t you be tellin’ her nuthin’.’

  ‘He’s late b
ack from the library,’ the druid continued unperturbed.

  Philly slowed. ‘That’s not a good place to be.’

  Griff took an unsteady step and eyed her with suspicion. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because Lord Gendrick has business with the custodian.’

  Tamulan watched a carriage pull into a side-street, its driver alighting just long enough to procure a bag of hot chestnuts. ‘And would you know the purpose of the minister’s visits?’

  Philly nodded with a look of unease. ‘He’s searching for a book and the one who can read it.’

  ‘And how would you know such a thing?’ Griff asked.

  ‘Because I was in the custodian’s office when Gendrick called on him earlier. Hidden of course,’ she added quickly.

  ‘Hidden?’

  Philly reddened. ‘He’s as slippery as a sea serpent and every bit as dangerous.’

  Tamulan gave the matter more thought. ‘He used you as a witness.’ Philly shrugged and divulged no more.

  ‘You think he knows about Brae?’ Griff’s question was directed at the druid.

  ‘Brae?’ Philly asked in a brighter tone. ‘Brae of Brindmere? Well I spoke with him on the steps of the library,’ she said when they pressed her for more.

  ‘When?’ Griff wanted to know.

  Philly fastened the top button of her new coat and plunged her hands deep inside its fur-lined pockets. ‘Not long before Elba Doss chased him into the market.’

  The custodian hailed the carriage as soon as it drew out of the side-street, skipping quickly onto the pavement as the vehicle skidded to a halt just inches away. He glared at the driver, who for the most part seemed not to notice. With the carriage stationary, the custodian pulled himself onto its lower tread and craned his neck so that he could speak in a hushed whisper.