Master of the Books

by James Moloney

  ‘You said there were likely to be others,’ Marcel reminded him.

  ‘Yes, after Ismar had been driven away, Menidae found plans among his apprentice’s books for the same magic using more powerful animals, an eagle or a bear, even a lion if he could get his hands on one.’

  ‘Why did he break the ban?’ Demiter asked. ‘It cost him his chance to be Master of the Books after Lord Menidae.’

  ‘Ismar’s ambitions had gone beyond such a role by then, I think,’ the general explained. ‘I told your father so at the time. Don’t banish him, throw him in a cell beneath the keep and send for the Grand Master of Noam to rescind his powers, I said. It’s too late now though. Ismar won’t be satisfied with anything less than the crown of Tamerlane, the crown that’s rightfully yours.’

  Demiter dismissed this comment with a wave of her hand, and after spending the morning with the girl, Marcel knew it wasn’t an empty gesture. Here was a princess who cared more for her people than for the circle of gold she might wear on her head.

  DEMITER AND MARCEL MADE their way back towards the hidden entrance into the tunnels. On the way, shouting from a street stall caught Marcel’s ear.

  ‘Charms, amulets, use magic against the enemy,’ called a man who was little more than skin and bone. ‘You, madam,’ he said to a woman, blocking her path so she had to step around him, ‘I’m a wizard equal to Lord Menidae himself. King Osward won’t keep you safe from the fighting, but I can. For a small price, I can cast a spell over you and the ones you love best so that no sword will harm them, no arrows pierce their skin.’

  Marcel couldn’t believe what he was hearing, a sorcerer selling his services on a street corner. ‘He’s a charlatan,’ he cried.

  ‘All sorcerers are charlatans,’ said Demiter. ‘Even Menidae can’t do much more than make rain now and then, or cure an illness that was going to get better anyway. I don’t believe in magic.’

  The woman they were watching pulled two coins from her pocket in exchange for a worthless charm, which the bogus magician blessed with a mumble of meaningless words. Marcel was ashamed to witness such a trick, and by a man wearing the dark robes of a sorcerer too. As the morning had worn on and he’d found himself liking Demiter more and more, he’d been planning to tell her of his role as Elster’s Master of the Books, but not now.

  They heard more shouting just before they slipped into the chicken coop on their way to the hidden door. ‘The army’s retreating. They’ve been driven back to the city gates,’ cried a man as he raced past. Panic followed him like a tidal wave. The last sight to catch Marcel’s eye before he turned away was a woman slumped in the open doorway of her home wailing, ‘Dead, we’ll all be dead!’

  They raced up through the gloomy passageways until they were back in the keep. ‘I’d better go to my father,’ said Demiter and she left Marcel to find his own way.

  He had almost reached his room when he collided with Nicola as she hurried around a corner. ‘Have you heard, Marcel? King Osward’s army has lost the battle. His soldiers are all coming back through the gates. Lord Tironel and Finn are on the battlements right now, watching them. They told me to stay in my room, but —’

  ‘Come on,’ he said, grabbing her hand. ‘Let’s find that bridge out to the walls.’

  After two steep staircases and a wrong turn, they trod cautiously across the narrow wooden bridge and onto a walkway that stretched along the inside of the entire southern wall. It was wide enough for five men to walk abreast, which was just as well because there was no rail to stop a careless soldier falling to his death on the cobblestones below.

  ‘The walls around Elstenwyck aren’t like this,’ said Nicola as she pressed herself against the dark grey stone and tried to ignore the drop.

  ‘These have been fortified for war,’ said Marcel, pleased that he could sound knowledgeable about such things. In fact, he was repeating things he’d heard yet was only now coming to understand himself. ‘See how all those pillars are higher than a man’s head? That’s to protect the defenders from arrows. When you want to fire your own bow, you have to step out into the gap between the pillars, I suppose.’

  They pushed on past a guard tower and over to the western wall, where they found Finn staring down at the chaos through one of those same waist-high gaps. The gates below were open and a rabble of soldiers was streaming through, some on horseback, some running, and the rest hobbling as best they could.

  ‘Look,’ said Finn, raising his arm. The line of desperate soldiers hurrying towards the gate trailed off eventually, then after a gap of open ground, a column of better disciplined troops could be seen making steady progress towards them. ‘It’s an advance guard of the rebels. If the stragglers don’t hurry …’

  Finn wasn’t the only one to realise this. Three sharp blasts from a horn warned the last of the king’s men. The gates began to close even though some of the wounded were a long way from safety. Most managed to scramble through, but when the gates finally slammed shut three unlucky men were left to their fate.

  ‘Help us! Open the gate,’ they shouted up to the battlements.

  The rebel forces had closed to within an arrow’s flight of the walls now.

  ‘Get behind the merlons,’ Finn ordered, giving the protective pillars their proper name. He didn’t obey his own command, however, and it wasn’t long before Marcel and Nicola risked a quick glance into the gap. Four enemy archers raced forward to a wagon abandoned by the fleeing rabble and using this as a shield, they attacked. The first arrow struck one of the stragglers in the leg, bringing an anguished scream. He fell against the gate and was pinned there by a second arrow that killed him.

  ‘This is cowardice. The king’s men won’t do a thing to save them,’ said Finn.

  He ran to the guardhouse twenty paces along the battlements and shouted at the soldiers but none would leave the safety of their station. Finn reappeared with a crossbow in his hands and fired three carefully aimed bolts at the wagon. One of the rebels fell into the open with a feathered shaft protruding from his shoulder, but for the two king’s men left alive outside the gates, it brought only a brief respite. Within minutes they lay dead at the feet of their companion.

  ‘If this is how Osward’s forces fight, Cadell will be taken in a week,’ said Finn in utter disgust.

  His words became more ominous when the rest of the rebel army began to appear on the plains half a mile from the city walls.

  ‘From the landward side, at least, Cadell is under siege,’ said Rhys Tironel, who’d come to join them.

  ‘Osward has brought this on himself,’ said Marcel. ‘We all saw what a terrible life the townspeople have, half-starved while the king stuffs his face. Those rich courtiers keep everything for themselves too. No wonder his own subjects want to overthrow him.’

  ‘You might have a point, Marcel,’ said Rhys Tironel, ‘but I spent much of last night speaking with Lord Menidae. The rebels are led by a former pupil of his, a wizard like you and me.’

  ‘Ismar,’ said Marcel.

  ‘Ah, you’ve been finding things out for yourself, I see. The sad thing is, those simple country folk who support Ismar will find their new champion no better than Osward.’

  ‘If this wizard was Menidae’s pupil, surely Menidae can stop him before he pushes the whole kingdom into war?’ Finn suggested.

  Rhys Tironel shook his head. ‘It’s too late for that, I’m afraid, and besides, Menidae seems wary of his former assistant. I fear the pupil may have become more skilful than the master.’

  ‘It’s hopeless then,’ said Nicola, who was listening with growing alarm. ‘Cadell will be overrun.’

  ‘Unless they find some heart, then yes,’ said Finn. ‘Last night, before the banquet, the officers couldn’t stop talking about a captain named Lorian. He showed up in Cadell only a few months ago, but he’s built a strong following by leading the charge into battle on a white horse. The men might show some fight with him commanding them.’

  ‘Sounds like
the man they need,’ said Nicola, ‘but I didn’t see a white horse come in with the others.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s dead,’ said Marcel.

  But the hero Lorian wasn’t dead, it seemed. In the hours following the shameful retreat, word spread through the citadel that he had been seen leading a gallant band of riders into the hills behind the rebel lines. From there they could harass the enemy in small skirmishes and fade away again before they were cut to pieces. The news built Captain Lorian’s reputation even further and by nightfall, although the man wasn’t even within the walls of Cadell, King Osward had made him a general and high commander of his army.

  ‘What’s left of it,’ Marcel said to Nicola when he heard.

  They were standing together on a small balcony that overlooked the stables and the barracks. The king’s announcement had raised the spirits of the weary soldiers they could see below, bedding down for the night. Since the barracks were overcrowded, many had settled into the straw of the stables and some simply lay down on the hard cobblestones.

  ‘They’ll get wet, poor things,’ said Nicola, noticing a storm gathering strength on the horizon. She decided to go to bed herself, and bade her brother good night.

  Marcel barely heard her leave, his attention focused on the brilliant arcs of lightning that split the night sky once, twice, three times. After a brief pause, the spectacle was repeated. ‘That’s strange,’ he said to Termagant, who had replaced Nicola at his side, ‘all that lightning and I can still see the stars.’

  He opened his mind to her reply but instead his companion gave her answer as only a cat could do. She arched her back and with her coal-black fur standing on end, she spat and hissed at the approaching maelstrom.

  Her response put Marcel on edge, and rather than slip off to bed as he’d planned, he began to track the storm as it headed straight for them. There was a kind of magnificence in watching something so powerful move across the landscape, and a dread too.

  He wanted a better view and retraced his earlier steps to the battlements. With one staircase still to climb, he looked up to find four men already in place. A flash of jagged lightning outlined Lord Menidae’s face while his robe flapped wildly against his legs. Marcel fell back into the shadows so that he couldn’t be seen. What was the wizard up to?

  Menidae stood with his arms raised towards the storm, which now resembled an enormous spider crawling towards Cadell on crooked white legs.

  ‘Disperse, you have no place here. Cadell is not yours to take,’ Lord Menidae cried and, pushing out with his arms, he tried to force back the storm. His assistants shouted other enchantments, which the wind snatched away as soon as they were spoken. For all this magic, the storm barely hesitated on its relentless sweep towards the city.

  The first strike slammed into the wall well below them. Marcel felt its force through the soles of his shoes at the same time as a deafening crack speared into his ears. The second blast knocked Menidae to his knees. He was quickly hauled back to his feet, but it was clear that he was no match for the forces that attacked the city walls. A third bolt of lightning gouged a heavy stone out of place and sent it crashing to the unseen earth below.

  This isn’t a natural storm, Marcel thought. The strikes are too accurate and they’re aimed at only one target. This is magic at work.

  He could already see that if the storm went on unchecked, it would blast a gap in the walls for Ismar’s army to charge though. He couldn’t let that happen. He stepped away from his hiding place and passed a hand before his face.

  Concentrate! he urged himself. Engage the magic that Lord Tironel thinks is in you.

  He stretched out a hand, palm open towards the might of the storm. At that instant, the lightning struck again and Marcel was thrown off his feet. He felt around desperately with his hands, searching for the wall so that he could pull himself upright again. The brightness had blinded him and many seconds passed before he could make out vague shapes around him.

  He backed away towards the stairs only to collide with a stout figure who was hurrying up from below. Through half-blind eyes he recognised Rhys Tironel.

  ‘It’s magic, too powerful for Lord Menidae,’ he gasped.

  ‘Go down to your room and stay there,’ said the wizard.

  Using the wall to guide him, Marcel felt his way down three steps then stopped as his sight returned enough to look back towards Rhys Tironel.

  Standing where Marcel had been only moments before, the wizard raised his arms, palms outstretched to face the storm. The swirling rays of light sensed his presence and sent a bolt of lightning spearing towards him. It struck his open hands with such force that, ten paces away, Marcel was again left sprawled on the ground.

  Yet when he could see again, he found that Rhys Tironel hadn’t moved, hadn’t even taken a step backwards. His body had simply absorbed the mighty force of the lightning. A second jolt couldn’t budge him either, nor a third. He advanced three purposeful strides and began to work his arms in wide sweeping movements. If he’d been a shepherd in a grassy field, sheep would have run off at his command, but he was a sorcerer and it was magic that answered to his call. The storm retreated, first from above the battlements, then across the woods. As it backed away, the tangle of lightning spat and rumbled like angry bears wrestling in each other’s deadly embrace. It was weakening though, and by the time it had receded beyond the enemy campfires its fury had become no more than distant echoes.

  On the battlements, Lord Menidae’s assistants knelt by his prostrate body. Marcel was relieved when, moments later, the wizard sat up and let the others lift him to his feet. He’d survived then, but only because Rhys Tironel had intervened.

  Rhys backed into the shadows and, seeing that his friend was in good hands, started down the stairs.

  ‘Marcel,’ he said in alarm. ‘Why are you still here?’

  ‘I saw what you did. That storm was trying to break a hole in the city walls. I felt the evil in it, like Mortregis.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure it felt the same, Marcel. But quickly, down these stairs. I don’t want Menidae to know I was here.’

  They scrambled down the remaining steps and into a passageway that took them towards their rooms.

  ‘WAIT, YOU MUST TELL me more,’ said Marcel when they were safely away.

  ‘The storm was sent by Ismar, that’s plain enough. He’s grown very powerful. The evil you sensed in his magic is real too, Marcel. The man is set on war to get what he wants and there’s no greater evil than that.’

  ‘Cadell is lucky that you were here to save it.’

  ‘I didn’t do it for Cadell. My own family have no part in this war, and neither do you, nor your sister, nor the young knight who guards you both.’

  ‘But you’ll help King Osward, won’t you?’

  ‘Not a second time. No one but you knows that I intervened tonight. It must stay that way, Marcel. Do I have your word?’

  Marcel nodded his agreement, but he needed more reasons than he’d been given so far. ‘Why won’t you help? The king’s a fool, but I’ve been down into the town with his daughter. The people are so badly treated, and they’re afraid, afraid of the fighting.’

  Rhys Tironel let his shoulders slump. ‘It seems as though I don’t care, doesn’t it? But please try to understand — I am the Grand Master of Noam, a place of sorcery and scholarship open to all, for the benefit of all. If a greedy king had sent his army against Tamerlane, then justice would lie clearly on one side; but this is a civil war, where right and wrong are difficult to judge. From what I’ve seen, neither side deserves victory. This is not our fight, Marcel. The sooner we are gone from here, the better.’

  CHAPTER 14

  Dragon’s Tooth

  MARCEL WAS BACK ON the battlements soon after dawn, with Finn at his side. Lines of soldiers and members of the court stretched to their left and right, every one of them staring out across the farmers’ fields that had once grown wheat and corn. Those crops had been trampled and in their place
now sprouted row after row of enemy troops.

  Finn watched the marshalling forces with a soldier’s eye. ‘If they were getting ready for attack, they wouldn’t let us see them like that.’

  ‘So what are they doing?’ asked Marcel.

  ‘Trying to frighten us.’

  They’re doing a good job then, Marcel thought, although he kept the comment to himself in case it sounded like cowardice. How did a soldier like Finn feel when he saw the enemy parading so belligerently? Did a knight’s training teach him not to feel fear, or did it simply force him to hide it?

  ‘They’re felling trees as fast as the axemen can bring them down. Do you see that, Finn,’ said Rhys Tironel, who was standing close by. ‘I don’t have to be a soldier to know what they’re for. War engines, to help Ismar’s men scale the walls. Even if you’re right and the attack is still many days away, it’s too dangerous to keep my family here any longer. We’re leaving on this morning’s tide, and since your ship has its new mast in place, you three can sail out beside us. The city’s already besieged by land and it can’t be long before it’s cut off from the sea as well.’

  ‘I spent all of last night thinking the same thing,’ Finn replied. ‘We’ll come with you to the dock. Marcel, go down to your quarters and gather your things. Tell Nicola to do the same.’

  Nicola! Finn had insisted on calling his sister by her other name until now. The thought quickly left Marcel though, for he had more serious things to think about. He headed for his room as commanded, but not to pack up his belongings. There was something else in his room he wanted to fetch. Like Finn, he had lain awake for much of the night. The violence of the storm and the way he’d been tossed aside like a piece of chaff in the wind had brought him to the brink of a decision. No answer had come until now, when Rhys announced his departure, then, in a single moment, he had made up his mind.