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

by Andy Roberts

  The guards were closer now. Six in total. Two headed towards Griff.

  ‘Ready yourselves to leave,’ Tamulan called.

  ‘He can’t be serious?’ Philly gripped the spokes of the wheel and peered through them as though waiting out a prison riot.

  Madoc climbed into the rear of his waggon, keeping low as the guards approached. ‘If the druid says go, then we go.’ He shivered with fear, not feeling the cold and called for Philly to grab the underside. When the vehicle moved, she gripped the axle-brackets with both hands, the metalwork cold, sharp and rusted.

  The guard stood over Griff, with another just a few steps behind. ‘Raise your hands,’ he ordered, preparing to engage the pincers of his lightning-staff. The innkeeper lifted his body and swung the crutch without warning, snapping the ligaments in the man’s right knee and sending him tumbling against the other. Griff swung again, but this time missed, the crutch slipping from his grasp and landing well out of reach. The second guard righted himself and reached for his lightning-staff a moment too late, a gust of wind somersaulting man and weapon into the dark abyss.

  Tamulan turned his attention to the remaining greensleeves. He lifted the index finger of his right hand and rotated it as though winding a fine crab-line. A dynamic vortex rose from the centre of the road, spitting snow and ice in the faces of the oncoming guards. They cowered away from it, their weapons now hopelessly out of control.

  Madoc called for them to get aboard, and fought to control the waggon as the mare slipped about on the camber of the road. Philly let go of the axle-brackets, ignoring the bloodied palm prints she left in the snow. She got a foot on the lowest step and hopped on one leg as her ride pulled away from her. Griff grabbed at the handrail his side and let the carriage drag him along, his boot digging a meandering trough behind him as they went.

  The hapless guards were trapped within the spinning vortex, the druid pushing at it, forcing it back towards the city and away from them. He shoved against Philly and climbed on behind her, threw himself to the other side and heaved Griff aboard.

  Madoc checked over both shoulders. ‘Socks?’ He whistled and called into the night.

  ‘Get out of here,’ the druid told him, a dozen or so more guards emerging from the stairwells of the two facing towers.

  ‘Not without the dog.’

  Tamulan snatched the reins from the farmer’s hands. ‘Ya,’ he shouted, and headed for home.

  The Chancellor’s private reading room was the perfect environment in which to share anecdotes and a glass or two of an expensive beverage. The far wall lay host to an open fireplace and a pair of leather chairs. Floor-standing white-energy lamps waited in each corner of the room, fish-oil odours not tolerated by the first minister.

  ‘Why don’t you show the commander the chapel,’ Gelfroy suggested. Nolaan looked to Goust for approval and followed the bishop only when he received it. With the two gone, Gelfroy gestured towards an empty armchair, repositioning it to take full advantage of the warmth of the fire. He waited for the emissary to sit, then did likewise in the other.

  Goust ran an appraising eye over the wall-to-wall bookcase opposite. ‘You have a great thirst for knowledge I see.’

  Gelfroy nodded. ‘I’ve read every one of them, and many more than once. History and politics mostly, but I must say that science is now developing in leaps and bounds.’ He rose and went to his corner of the room, flicking the lamp on and off to demonstrate his point.

  Goust watched him. ‘I’ve heard that in the far-lands there exist sea vessels that cross the wide oceans using nothing but heated water vapour to power them.’

  ‘Surely not?’

  ‘It’s what they say,’ Goust insisted.

  The chancellor got to his feet and liberated two cut-crystal glasses from a serving trolley. ‘Your favourite, I’m told?’ He lifted the decanter and poured a single glass of aggleberry liqueur.

  ‘Will you not join me, Solon? Just one, perhaps?’

  Gelfroy licked his lips and swallowed. ‘In my case, there’s no such thing.’ He raised a glass of water. ‘To the everlasting friendship between our two lands.’

  Goust stood and returned the toast. ‘For as long as I remain emissary at the very least,’ he said putting the glass to his lips.

  Chapter

  — 21 —

  ‘They should have been back long before now.’ Brae used the grubby cuff of his shirtsleeve to wipe condensation from the front window. He peered through the porthole and saw nothing but snow and darkness. ‘Somethin’ must have happened at the library.’

  Pew leaned over the top of the teenager. ‘They’ll be walkin’ no doubt,’ he said with a knowing nod. ‘Won’t get a horse and cart through this.’

  Brae came away from the window and followed behind him. ‘The mare has her winter shoes on. Delivered them myself, so I did.’

  ‘Then she has every chance.’ Pew gave his nephew a heavy pat on the back and went to speak with Watty. The smithy stood at the bar reminiscing with Molly between frequent gulps of ale. ‘Get you another?’ Pew asked, depositing a couple of empties on the oak surface.

  The smithy slammed his mug onto the woodwork with a loud belch. ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ he mumbled and used his hat to stifle another. He wiped beer-froth from his moustache and licked it from each of his dirty fingers in turn. ‘Get a room in the city is what I’d do.’ Watty slapped his waistline and hooked both thumbs in his belt. ‘Sit out the storm and make my way home after a good breakfast of sausages.’ He beamed ear to ear, his rheumy eyes and white teeth showing through a face full of matted hair.

  Molly set another full mug before him and laughed. Today was a good day. No voices or bad thoughts. She liked having good days, they reminded her of the times before the demon came to live in her head. ‘Girl’s on form tonight.’ The mad woman was stood on a chair, dancing a jig to a piece she played on an imaginary accordion. Several villagers went along with it, stamping their feet in time with the silent music, clapping her on—all from a distance of at least two tables away.

  ‘A lesson to the young ‘uns, so she is.’ Watty leaned on an elbow, the great slab of oak creaking under his weight. ‘That’s what happens when the resin catches up with you.’

  ‘Wasn’t resin in her day,’ Molly corrected. ‘Sour-pellets is what she took.’

  Watty scratched his chin. ‘Do you remember—’

  ‘They’re back,’ Brae shouted above the raucous noise.

  Pew checked through several windows in turn and saw a flaming torch rise and fall as though carried by a rider. Over the brow of the hill came another, then two more after that. ‘That’s not Griff.’ The farmhand called for quiet. ‘You too,’ he shouted with his finger directed at the accordion player. Girl hurled the imaginary instrument and leapt from the table after it. ‘Gendrick’s men,’ Pew told them, though his warning had no effect whatsoever on the mad woman now headed straight at him. The window exploded with a shower of sharp glass, Pew and Brae going to ground in an instant. Girl took the thick quarrel in the centre of her chest, the impact knocking her off her feet, the missile driven right up to its feathered end. A bright, red stain expanded quickly across the front of her sleeveless vest-top. Girl didn’t notice—she was already dead.

  The night-dwellers came down off the hill. The rules were different and they crossed the road in their droves, no attempt whatsoever to keep themselves hidden. Tyne-Sly fought hard to control his horse as it reared up on sight of them. ‘The boy and his family are ours,’ he said. ‘Do what you want with the others.’ Taenon saw the door to the inn open and then close quickly, its wooden panels split and splintered by a quarrel that impacted with a thunderous thud. Two hirelings trudged through the snow, one carrying a huge, double-handed hammer, the other there only to hold him upright as he took wide swings at the front door. A night-dweller chased a would-be escapee, the creature’s more nimble frame making light work of the deep snow. It took the man down and tore at his neck, the night fille
d suddenly with the sounds of screaming, the snow stained a bright, crimson red.

  Pew pushed tables against the bulging door while Watty threw chairs at the night-dwellers climbing in through broken windows. Brae got behind the bar and reached for Windsong, held her in both hands and felt her come alive—then swore loudly. He called to Molly in a fit of desperation, told her to fetch the quarrels from the druid’s room upstairs, and swore again when she didn’t make it anywhere near the door in the wall. A hireling grabbed Molly by the hair and smashed her head against the blunt stonework. Her knees buckled and she fell to the floor, the attacker driving his heavy boot into her chest, laughing as he did so for a second time. Brae charged at the man, swinging Windsong wildly at him. The hireling gave Molly a brief reprieve and turned his boot on the teenager. Brae doubled over and tried to not vomit. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Watty on his knees, a hireling gripping his shoulder from behind. The smithy’s hands closed around nine inches of sharp steel that protruded from his belly, his fingers swiftly amputated as the blade was withdrawn without warning. Brae spat blood and straightened.

  ‘Run,’ Watty managed before slumping in an awkward heap without the support of his killer’s hand.

  Brae had no idea what to do next. His mentor lay dying in a puddle of dark blood, and Molly was snoring and turning a worrying shade of blue.

  Tyne-Sly stood in the doorway and pointed to the stout ceiling beams near the centre of the room. ‘Those will do,’ he said tossing a pair of coiled ropes towards one of his men. His voice was loud and had to be to cut through the screams of customers dragged from the inn by the salivating night-dwellers.

  ‘What do you want with us?’ Pew asked from his kneeling position. His face was bloodied and his entire body shook with fear.

  ‘From you, nothing.’ Sly dropped the looped end of the rope over the farmhand’s head and nodded. Two of the hirelings heaved, raising Pew to his feet, walking him to the centre of the room. Sly made his way to the bar and took Watty’s nearly full mug. He put his foot on Molly’s shoulder and shook her roughly as he emptied the cold ale onto her face. ‘Time to wake up for the last time,’ he told her.

  Brae heard Pew plead for his sister’s life; saw them both hoisted into the air, kicking and bucking violently. Sly came for him next and the world went suddenly dark.

  Tyne-Sly stopped only to speak with Taenon, Brae unconscious and draped over the back of the hireling’s horse. ‘Have them all,’ he told the night-dweller, ‘but leave the swingers for the druid to know what trouble he’s caused.’

  ‘And those?’ Taenon brought Sly’s attention to the wisps of bright orange all but hidden in the trees. ‘What if they bring flame?’

  ‘They’ve come for this.’

  Taenon ran his sharp claws along Windsong’s curves and felt her recoil beneath his rough touch. ‘You’re supposed to destroy it along with the people here.’

  The night-dweller was agitated, angry even, the hireling could tell. He forced his boot into the stirrup and swung his other leg. ‘I will,’ he said settling into the saddle.

  ‘You put us all in danger by not following the minister’s instructions.’

  Sly tugged at the reins and came close to running Taenon down when the horse turned a half-circle. ‘I said I’ll deal with it.’

  The mare struggled, the snow getting deeper with every mile further from the city they travelled. ‘Use the wind to shift it.’ Griff’s teeth chattered with the cold, his words struggling to cut through the brittle air.

  The druid pulled his hood against the worst of it and stood. ‘We’ll have to walk.’

  Griff straightened from the hunched huddle and dusted himself down. ‘Freeze’ to death, so we will.’

  ‘We’re well over half way there already.’ Tamulan leapt from the waggon and landed knee-deep in powdery snow. He held his hands aloft and called for Philly to jump. She looked in all directions and threw herself into the druid’s open arms when no alternative presented itself.

  Griff pressed his leg into the snow and had the rest of his body follow. He’d lost the crutch during their altercation with the guards and held the side-rail tightly while he got his balance. ‘Then we best get on with it,’ he said when ready.

  Madoc didn’t move, just sat where he was and watched them prepare to leave. ‘I can’t go without her,’ he said in answer to their questions. ‘Best damn sheepdog I’ve ever had.’

  ‘Stay and you’ll die,’ the druid told him.

  ‘Survived worse, so I have.’ The farmer stood firm, his final decision made.Tamulan came back to the waggon, gloves hanging from the corner of his mouth, hands cupped together as he offered the glowing ember.

  Philly nodded, encouraging Madoc to take it. She blew warm air into her mittens. ‘Don’t we get one?’ she asked.

  Tamulan replaced his gloves and shook his head. ‘Each ember requires one degree of body heat given by me. I’d get a severe blood-chill without a fire to replace the loss.’

  ‘I’ve got blood-chill,’ Griff complained, the flour-paste hanging from his beard like frosted icicles.

  ‘Take it,’ Madoc told him. ‘The man’s probably right—even if I do survive the cold, there’s plenty else back there waitin’ to kill me.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Griff said. ‘If you’re not back by openin’ time, I’ll have you court-marshalled, so I will.’

  Madoc chuckled. ‘Best keep me a cup of Molly’s hot, fruit tea in that case.’

  Griff tried to laugh. Willed himself to smile. Managed neither.

  The lone horseman slowed, his ear picking up voices carried on the otherwise silent night. He altered his course and pulled under cover of the trees, dismounting carefully to avoid branches bent with the heavy weight of snow. Sly lifted Brae’s head by a handful of hair and stared into his frightened eyes. ‘The cripple is in for a surprise, don’t you think?’ Brae struggled against the firm hand and tried to speak around his mouth-gag. Sly couldn’t tell what he’d said—didn’t care—and took them deeper still into the dense wood.

  There were three figures in total, one carrying a beam of yellowed light that faltered momentarily before shinning brightly again. The snowfall had eased to just a few meandering flakes, though night succeeded still in keeping dawn at bay. The figures came to a halt where his horse had left the road, their light hovering over the footprints before sweeping along the trees and towards him. Sly drew his blade and waited with the patience of a statue until the light went off and the group walked on.

  Chapter

  — 22 —

  It was well into the small hours when Commander Nolaan stood over Elam Goust’s dead body. The emissary looked as though he were asleep in his chair, resting after an arduous journey and seven courses of fine, Randoran dining. But his lips were blue and his tongue swollen and lifeless. The soldier took the half-empty glass and sniffed its contents.

  Gelfroy shook his head. ‘I don’t know who would do such a thing.’ He turned away and went to the fire.

  Nolaan lay the glass down and marched towards the door. ‘You will move Bishop.’ He put his hand to the hilt of his sword and brought its first two inches of polished steel into view as a warning.

  Tarunkeep lowered his crosier and touched it against the soldier’s sword-arm, causing it to spasm involuntarily. ‘It would be very unwise to act in haste, Commander.’

  Nolaan rubbed his arm, opening and closing his fist as he did so. ‘Two counts of murder and now another of assault.’ He was angry and stalked the circumference of the room like a caged animal. ‘King Kwoten will not hesitate to declare war on this land.’

  ‘Not if we deal with it appropriately,’ the bishop said.

  Gelfroy turned his back on the fireplace. ‘What do you mean … deal with it?’

  The clergyman balanced his crosier in the crease of his shoulder. ‘This is all Vaspar Gendrick’s doing.’ Nolaan tried to move past but Tarunkeep blocked the door and refused to move. ‘The minister keeps company with a poi
soner after all, and both were seen in the Senate when word broke of the warrant for his arrest.’

  The commander stood toe-to-toe with the bishop. ‘Then why didn’t your guards seize him?’

  ‘He simply disappeared before they could.’

  Gelfroy frowned deeply and scratched an annoying itch at his hairline. ‘Are you saying someone hid Gendrick so that he could murder the emissary?’ Tarunkeep nodded that he was. ‘But why ever would he do that?’

  ‘I fear the minister has rendered us all blind with an elaborate smokescreen.’ The bishop ushered them out into the corridor and locked the door. ‘What he seeks is something far more terrible than war.’

  Vaspar Gendrick stood in the relative comfort of the great cabin, the crew setting their oars to the water in an attempt to get the wind behind the vessel’s three sails. He wasn’t expecting to leave before Sly got there; hadn’t counted on the guards finding him quite so quickly.

  ‘Doss must have squealed before he died.’ Snake kneeled on what would once have been plush red velvet. The worn bench-seat wrapped itself around three walls in a horseshoe fashion. He peered through the leaded panels of glass, watching dozens of blue glow-lights arrive on the quayside.