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

by Andy Roberts

  ‘I don’t think we’ll be long at all,’ Philly told them. ‘It’s closed.’ The library windows were dark and the brass dragon slept soundly.

  ‘I told you we should’ve come earlier.’ Griff removed his eye patch and threw it to one side. ‘Too much time wasted tellin’ daft stories.’

  ‘It’s a public holiday.’ Philly shook her head and shrugged. ‘We just forgot with all that’s been happening.’

  Tamulan stared at the empty building and the costume-wearing students who chased one another up and down the steps and through the gardens. There were far too many to catch in a single trance—he’d never get their attention all at once. He considered using dragon-bone powder and breaking in under a cloak of invisibility, but the more he thought about it, the less likely it was the custodian would have left the book inside. If Vaspar Gendrick’s hold over Elba Doss was as great as Philly claimed, then he’d have delivered it to Parondor Keep by now.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Philly asked.

  ‘Home.’ Griff reached for the rail of Madoc’s waggon. ‘Had enough, so I have.’

  ‘But we’re here now.’ She turned her hands to the night sky and squealed. ‘And it’s snowing,’ she said excitedly. ‘A couple of hours, that’s all.’

  ‘Had a bad feelin’ in the pit of my stomach all day, so I have.’ Griff tugged at his beard and wiped lumps of flour-paste from his hands. ‘Wrong’s up to no good again,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll buy you some roasted chestnuts.’ Philly cuddled up close. ‘They’re your favourite after all.’

  ‘And just how would you know such a thing?’ Griff pulled away and brushed long strands of red hair from his clothing. ‘Moltin’ like a dog, so you are.’

  Philly ignored the innkeeper’s attempt to start an argument. ‘Come on—please.’

  ‘And where will you be gettin’ the money for the nuts?’

  ‘From you,’ she said flashing the widest smile she possessed. ‘I’ll give it back.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon enough.’

  Griff’s stomach grumbled, pushing him into a snap decision. ‘One hour and then I don’t care if you come or not.’ He glanced up at Madoc and sighed deeply. ‘Should have left her to the damn fish.’

  Belb felt himself slide, bits of surface-grit on the cobblestones scratching at his back. They hoisted him until his head was waist-height from the floor, stopping only to cut the thin prison-shroud from his body. The freezing wind lashed at his exposed skin like a cat-o’-nine-tails wielded by the strong hand of an invisible quartermaster. They pulled again, two guards on each rope, another winding the slack onto a stubby handle nailed to the hanging-post. The wooden ball did all it could to obstruct a sudden release of hot bile, the sour fluid welling in the lanista’s mouth, giving him the overwhelming sensation that he was choking. Under almost any other set of circumstances, the square might have looked odd when viewed from the wrong way up. But there was no humour to be found in Lanista Belb’s current situation and no-one in the crowd appeared to be laughing.

  After sentencing, they’d made him drink a tall glass of farine juice. Another that morning and one more before they brought him out into the square. ‘Don’t want your blood turning to jelly before you’re done,’ Bhildraed had told him. Belb tried to swing himself around to see what the executioner was doing but couldn’t. He saw the man’s dirty boots and wondered why they hadn’t been polished for such an occasion. His hearing was now finely tuned to something familiar to all soldiers—the sound of a blade being drawn across the surface of a whetstone. Bhildraed was sharpening his knife. Belb felt dizzy and was suddenly very afraid.

  Griff stood and stared into his open bag of chestnuts. He wasn’t hungry, didn’t know why, but was off his food. He pocketed the change and tossed the bulging bag into a box that served as a bin for the stall.

  ‘What’s wrong with them?’ The merchant stopped pushing nuts around the flaming grill and pulled a concerned face.

  ‘They’re off.’

  ‘You didn’t try them yet.’

  ‘I can tell.’ Griff turned away, his attention taken by a juggling troupe dancing along in the middle of the street. Children ran about like ants in a disturbed nest, calling for the jugglers to shake their heads and sound the tinkling bells that hung from red and green jester’s hats. He hated the Winter’s Day festival, no matter how many times friends and family tried to help him make sense of it.

  Philly sipped a cup of spiced wine while walking on handfuls of strewn lavender, their pods crunching underfoot, adding a sweet accompaniment to the smell of spit-roasted meats. Someone ran past and bumped her arm, spilling some of the hot drink. The student mumbled an immediate apology. ‘We’re gonna miss it,’ she heard him say. ‘It’s almost six bells.’

  Tamulan kept his hood raised—the guard on the bridge might have fallen for Philly’s quick yarn, but there were plenty of others who might possess a more enquiring disposition. He added a large dollop of sticky, plum-chutney to a cut of ham that was as thick as his finger and wrapped it in a soft crust of sweet pastry. Philly chewed on the rim of her empty cup, watching as an old woman removed the lid from a soup pot that was almost big enough for her to take a bath in. She inhaled deeply as the woman disappeared behind a mushroom-cloud of hot steam and exhaled only when she knew the soup-seller was safe.

  They moved on and came to a small, canvas tent, an artist’s impression of a woman wearing an ostentatious wig and over-sized spectacles pinned to a large sandwich-board outside. ‘The Future for a Flanning,’ it said in bold print below the clairvoyant’s wide smile: ‘The All-Knowing Madame Zeste,’ above her ginger wig.

  ‘Can we?’ Philly asked excitedly.

  ‘No,’ Griff said firmly, just as a head quite like that on the picture pushed its way into the open air.

  Madame Zeste reached for Philly. ‘Right this way,’ she said with a quick glance left and right. Her nails were as long as rat’s tails, yellow and twisted like pieces of dried stick. ‘An enchanter,’ she said with an air of caution and let go of Philly’s hand immediately.

  ‘You’re quite safe, I don’t practice.’ Griff caught Tamulan’s eye and shook his head.

  ‘I see your father doesn’t approve?’

  ‘I’m told that I inherit most of my traits from my mother.’

  Madame Zeste straightened her wig and addressed the innkeeper directly. ‘And that makes you nervous?’ Being the only non-gifted in the home, I mean.’

  Griff leaned closer and frowned. ‘You’re a man.’

  ‘You got a problem with that?’ the clairvoyant asked in full baritone. Philly grabbed hold of Griff and pulled him inside.

  The tent was surprisingly warm and a welcome shelter from the cold wind. ‘They’re more comfortable than any chair I know,’ Madame Zeste said pointing to a mountain of tasselled cushions piled high on the floor.

  ‘I’ll stand, so I will.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  Tamulan lowered himself onto his knees and Philly tapped one right next to her.

  ‘Said I’d stand, so I did.’ Dozens of stubby candles burned in floor saucers and tripod stands, bathing the interior with a shimmering light that softened its sparse features. The sides of the tent billowed inwards under the influence of the wind, coming dangerously close in places to the flicking tongues of flame. Madame Zeste held her hand outstretched. ‘Sweet Amaethon.’ Griff rummaged through his pockets when all eyes fell upon him. ‘Bollocks, so it is.’ He passed a flanning and mumbled something about thieves and hanging.

  ‘What brought you to the city tonight?’ Madame Zeste asked.

  ‘You tell us,’ Griff said with a smug grin. He folded his arms and leaned on his crutch.

  ‘I deal with the future, not the past.’ The clairvoyant forced each syllable as though delivering punches with a clenched fist. Griff shook his head and refused to listen a moment longer. ‘What is it with you?’ Madame Zeste asked.

  ‘You’re nothin’ but a
charlatan, so you are. And a freak.’ Griff slapped at the air as though trying to swat an annoying fly.

  ‘I’m no such thing.’

  ‘Then prove it.’

  Madame Zeste’s wig slid to a lopsided tilt as she got up, lip-paint smudged grotesquely across her contorted jowls. She jabbed a finger at each of them in turn, her long nails close to claiming an eye or two. ‘You want the future?’ she asked loudly, ‘then here it is. The druid will travel to Ocantis, though what will happen between the boy and the Dragon Lord is beyond anything I can see. The enchantress will never bear young and will leave this world a tormented woman. And you,’ she hissed at Griff. ‘You are soon to know a pain that will have you beg for death to come take you.’

  A large, metal bowl was kicked onto the floorspace beneath Belb’s head. It made a scraping noise on the cobbles much like the executioner’s knife had on the whetstone. The crowd fell silent, each and every one of them watching the clock-tower with baited breath. Bhildraed stood so close now that Belb could hear the man’s breath coming and going. He found the noise irritating, raspy and insistent—so much so that he missed the first toll of six bells. No-one spoke good or bad of him: no eulogy in recognition of unquestioning service to their land. A slow pitter-patter of dark, red spots struck the bowl, accompanied by what sounded like fingers tapping on an empty tin. He hadn’t felt a thing and was glad for that last minute sharpening of the executioner’s blade. He felt tired and tried to yawn, saw the look in the eyes of several of the nearest onlookers and checked the bowl. He couldn’t believe how much blood he’d already lost. This was his thanks, they’d given him extra-strength farine juice and bled him quickly, the rising level spilling onto the cobblestones and staining them red. Belb didn’t care, he now had an answer to his long-nagging question.

  Death was …

  Well, death was …

  Death was like falling asleep.

  Chapter

  — 20 —

  A lone figure pushed his way through the cheering crowds, an ill-gotten demon-mask and hooded cloak concealing his true identity. Gendrick had waited until all eyes were on Commander Nolaan, making his move only when the Threskan reached deep inside Belb’s open chest to claim his fibrillating heart. An onlooker shoved and told the minister to mind where he was going, two more men standing in his way, refusing to let him pass. The men looked angry; seasoned veterans pissed that a brave comrade had been dispatched in such a cowardly manner. Gendrick considered his options and decided that a well placed handful of fire-dust was as good as anything else he possessed about his person. He reached under his cloak and dug deep into the pockets of his tunic. He took more than he knew was necessary, bringing his hands together and rubbing the grit-like pellets for a count of three. With the chain reaction started, he tossed the lot and turned away, the loud thwack and bright flash rendering people ten deep in all directions giddy and photophobic. The pulsing blue glow-lights of the city guards could be seen wherever he looked, a cluster making their way towards the source of the explosion. He took his opportunity and left the square headed in the general direction of the dock.

  Griff marched along the street, calling to Madoc, trying to get his attention. The farmer stood talking to a couple of carriage drivers, oblivious to the innkeeper’s attempts to hail him. Philly stuck a finger and thumb in her mouth and whistled with an ear-piercing shriek, Madoc at last turning to wave an acknowledgement. The snow fell heavier now, dusting their shoulders and gathering quickly where the cobbled road met the pavements. The farmer shook his hat and settled into his seat, the dappled mare lifting her head to check who was at the reins before moving off. They came around in a wide half-circle, the mare rearing up on its hind legs, spooked by a costumed figure that ran across her front and disappeared into the dark maze of alleyways. Madoc cracked his whip at the man but missed by a country mile.

  ‘Stay on the pavement,’ Griff warned. ‘Slippin’ about like a good un, so it is.’ Philly knew well not to argue and took an extra step rearward when the cartwheel hit the curbstone with a solid thud.

  ‘Couldn’t have waited much longer,’ Madoc told them as they climbed aboard. ‘Drivers say the way home won’t be passable in another hour.’

  Gendrick could smell the ocean—the distinctive salt-'n’-fish odour that lingers in the air of a busy dock. He stopped to catch his breath and cursed the driver who’d so nearly mown him down. He tried to get his bearings in the darkness, his hearing tuned to the calls of gulls and the crashing of waves on nearby rocks. A crossette of red and gold exploded in the sky overhead, colour raining on the city like cherry blossom in spring. Gendrick removed his gloves and felt in his pockets for a cube of resin. He used the tip of his wet tongue to loosen an edge of oil-paper and picked at it obsessively until it gave in. A few short moves of preparation had him leaning against a lamp post, inhaling deeply. He savoured the rise and endured the fall, setting off again with a crunching sound that threatened to betray his position to anyone in possession of a careful ear.

  Up ahead and under shelter of a narrow doorway, a figure stepped out into the night. He was tall, broad-shouldered and wore the flat cap and flowing cloak of a carriage driver.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Gendrick asked, distracted momentarily by another noisy show of colour high above them.

  ‘Guards everywhere,’ Snake said with a mischievous grin. ‘Must be looking for someone.’

  They broke out into the open, the cold wind slapping at their faces with a stinging repetition. Gendrick pulled the string of his cloak tighter to his neck and repositioned the hood so that he could better look along the dock. ‘Can’t see more than an arm’s length in any direction,’ he complained.

  Snake saw a yellow glow that peeked out of the gloom, signalling to them. Not yet fully recovered from his toxic travels, Gendrick on the other hand, could see no such thing.

  ‘You have to let us through,’ Madoc told the guards, ‘I’ve cattle up in the hills.’

  ‘No-one crosses the bridge.’ The shorter of the two men shook his head and stood in their way.

  ‘But they’ll freeze up there, so they will.’

  ‘Orders from the chancellor himself.’ The taller man marched on the spot and slapped both arms back and fore across his chest. ‘The bridge is closed until further notice,’ he stammered.

  ‘On what grounds?’ Philly demanded to know. ‘It looks perfectly passable to me.’

  The shorter guard raised his glow-light, bathing Philly’s face and shoulders in a solid, blue hue. ‘They’re hunting Minister Gendrick—he’s a traitor to the state.’

  ‘So why can’t we cross?’ Griff asked. Tamulan put a hand on the innkeeper’s arm but he pulled away and lowered himself quickly onto the metal tread of a step. ‘You think we’re hidin’ him?’ The innkeeper’s manner was ill-tempered and he rounded the waggon, gripping its sides like a toddler negotiating furniture.

  The guard retreated far enough to be able to lower his lightning-staff. ‘Orders are orders: the bridge is shut.’ Whatever it took, Griff was going home. He passed the man and saw the solid blue puddle of light blink rapidly. ‘You will stop,’ the guard told him.

  ‘And you’ll wint ne fut.’ At first Griff heard the distinctive whine from the guard’s weapon, then suddenly, another sound—a rumbling noise that increased in volume as it came charging across Jerrals’ Bridge with the speed of the steel horses of the far-lands.

  The welcome Giblin gave them was as cold as the night itself. ‘I told you six bells.’ The grisly sea-captain scowled and lowered his lamp. ‘You’re lucky I’m still here at all.’

  ‘I’d hunt you down and have you filleted if you were not,’ Gendrick told him. Snake took a step closer, qualifying the minister’s claim.

  Even in the gloom and driving snow, the seafarer saw the glint of a blade in the poisoner’s hand. ‘They’re onto you, is all I’m saying.’ He shook the snow off his cap and repositioned it tight to his head. ‘Already have Doss under lock and
key, so they say.’

  Snake put away the knife. ‘Should have killed him when he gave us what we wanted.’

  Gendrick reached into his pocket and removed the custodian’s blood-soiled handkerchief, checked another and produced the emissary’s fur glove. ‘He’ll be dealt with soon enough.’

  Snake chuckled. ‘You’re going to bind the custodian to the emissary?’

  ‘And your aggleberry juice will do the rest.’

  Giblin stood hunched under the enormous weight of what was yet to come, the worsening weather adding yet another layer of complexity. ‘We should get going before the guards shut the dock.’

  ‘Not until Sly arrives with the boy,’ Gendrick said.

  The captain lowered his head and blinked against the falling snow. ‘We’ll anchor just off the strait. He’ll see us when he leaves Bannif Bay.’

  Tamulan stood like a preacher-man, his arms held aloft, head inclined rearwards. Griff hit the floor and Madoc and Philly threw themselves behind the waggon. The guards weren’t as quick to respond—had never before encountered the druid—and took the full brunt as the snowy surface of the bridge exploded like a cloud of white gas. Griff clawed at the road and was sent towards the far-side pavement, while Madoc put a firm shoulder to the waggon when it lifted sideways onto two wheels. Philly grabbed at the rough material of the farmer’s cheap coat, shrieking loudly as she buried her face in it.

  The druid guided the wind as skillfully as a conductor would a symphony orchestra, his arms arcing side-to-side, the destructive force following his every command. The lightning-staff was snatched from the hands of the terrified guard and hurled towards the rocks way below the bridge. The greensleeves tried to run but the wind upended them when Tamulan pushed with both palms raised. The men hit the floor and came to rest well inside the city limits, the Bell of Randor tolling madly overhead. More guards appeared halfway along the bridge, their lightning-staffs blinking blue and whining like wounded animals. They held their weapons waist-high like pike-men, the front two unleashing streaks of crackling white-energy that had Madoc and Philly press themselves tight against the axle of the rocking waggon. Tamulan pushed against the approaching light, deflecting it around its intended target and towards the short, boundary-wall opposite. Philly crawled under the waggon, sheltering from the airborne fragments of sharp stone and broken plaster that rained down on them.