by J. W. Webb
Rael laughed again at the sackcloth of misery behind him. The boy groaned, and Cavan kicked him to silence. Rael turned his gaze west again, to angry sky and distant thunder. Storm coming soon. No matter, they’d raise Crenna before it arrived. This very evening, Rael Hakkenon would feast his chiefs and parade his prize for all to see.
***
That same afternoon back in Kella City found Caswallon, former High Councilor and recently self-imposed Regent of Kelthaine, reflecting on the last few days. No word from the Assassin, but Rael was ever perverse in his communications. No need to fret, Hakkenon was the finest killer in the realm. Kelsalion had loathed him, hence the irony that it was Rael’s poisoned blade that skewered the High King. But Rael Hakkenon was a random weapon. Caswallon dare not trust him. He had other servants, though he didn’t trust them either. But then, Caswallon wasn’t big on trust. When you sleaze and murder your way to the top, it pays dividends to treat everyone close as a potential knife in the dark.
Still, the Assassin was efficient. Tarin would be in Kranek Castle soon, the poor fool. Caswallon almost pitied the boy—almost.
And he had won! Kella was his, with Perani flushing out the few stubborn royalists. Perani was no fool. He’d sided with Caswallon after seeing how things stood. Sensible fellow—he’d much to gain. Caswallon’s hands controlled the city coffers. But it had taken its toll, this long and urgent scheming, plotting, and waiting. Caswallon was just over sixty years old but looked nearly seventy. That was sorcery for you—it played havoc on the body. He had everything he wanted, though—his new masters had been obliging in that area. So though he looked frail, Caswallon’s battery was charged to full by an alien power. He had never been stronger, thanks to them.
The Urgolais.
A knock on the door interrupted his peruse.
“Enter.”
A nightmare shuffled in, its two hairless heads scraping the lintel supporting the heavy door. It was rangy, its lean body more dog-like than human. It wore a heavy tunic of tanned leather studded with iron, and at its waist hung a heavy mace. The skin that showed was black and hoary, and the thing’s paws were tipped with steely nails two inches in length.
Caswallon frowned. Even one-headed Groil took some getting used to. They resembled their masters, with canine eyes and doggy snout. They were tall, long in limb, and fleshless. Creatures of sorcery created by the Dog Lord, Caswallon’s new powerful accomplice. This was their leader, Drol. Caswallon’s new lieutenant, the Groil chief had arrived last night with two hundred followers, all gifts to Caswallon from their Urgolais master. Gifts that would make sure he kept his side of the bargain.
“What do you require, Drol? I know little of your needs. Your master was unforthcoming.”
“We need feed.” Most Groil didn’t speak. Drol could at least make himself understood.
“On what would you feed?”
“Warm flesh, hot blood—army needs sustaining.”
“Oh, I see. Best go clear the dungeons, then. It’s too crowded down there anyway. No loss for a few score prisoners to go missing, they’ve few secrets left to tell me.”
“Thank you, C’swollen.” Drol practiced what might have been a smile. It was lost on Caswallon.
“Do you know how to find the dungeons below?”
“I can smell them.”
“Then go hence swiftly and help yourself.”
Scrape, bump, and drag. Two-heads left the chamber.
Caswallon knew he had delved too deep into the realms of ancient thaumaturgy when, of course, they had found him. The Dog People. Ancient beings rumored long dead. Like their Aralais foe, both races had ruled this country before the coming of Kell, Kelsalion’s legendary ancestor.
Most were gone, but a few lingered still, and these had pounced on Caswallon. Only his guile had saved him. Caswallon was a survivor and had glibly won them over—he was ever a master with words. Their leader had sensed a champion for their ancient cause, to root out the surviving Aralais and annihilate them, and so sorcerers old and new had formed a tenuous alliance.
But there was a price...
Another knock on his heavy door, this one urgent yet tentative. A servant no doubt.
“What is it?” Caswallon’s dark brows joined in irritation. He cared not to be interrupted once, let alone twice. “I said, what is it?”
“Messenger, my lord. Fresh from Wynais.”
“Ah, then you had better let him in.” Caswallon’s mood lightened just a jot. This could prove constructive, diverting even.
There followed a shuffle and crunch of steel-shod feet. The door creaked open, and three men entered: two guards, both Perani’s men, both nervous having just met Drol on the stairs. Between them, a shabby sweating mess with shaven head and recently soiled green gown. The messenger (and presumably this was he) had found the chief Groil a sight more unsettling than had the guards.
Caswallon glared at the wretch in utter contempt. “And what is that?” he demanded from the biggest guard.”
“He’s the messenger, my lord. He sent pigeon to you apparently but thought he’d better ride north himself lest the bird go awry.”
Caswallon turned his coaly gaze on the messenger. “You sent only the one bird.”
“Three, your worship.”
“And yet I remain uninformed.”
“I…your—”
“Speak your news, else lose your tongue! Already I weary of you.”
And so the messenger told him.
“Just the three men, you say, and only two of them warriors.”
“The third man is Galed the—”
“I couldn’t give a toss who the third man is,” snapped Caswallon. And he couldn’t. What mattered was that that arrogant child-bitchling Ariane was calmly riding north into his domain, with only three men to protect her. She might as well go naked.
How diverting. Even stupider than her father, Nogel the Dense, he who had pitched from his horse thanks to Caswallon’s men’s carefully placed caltrops. Once he was down, they’d helped him break his neck on a stone. Dreadful accident. Shame. There were a lot of accidents back then. It paid to remove the main obstacles long before the endgame.
“When did they leave?”
“Four days ago, my worship—I’ve not tarried but have ridden hence at speed.”
“Not tarried?” Caswallon’s black eyes narrowed dangerously. “You, maggot, have cost me time. I could have her in chains by now had you the wit to send more birds.”
“Worship—”
“Silence, knave!” Caswallon’s leaden gaze fell on the big guard. The man looked very pale (though not so pale as the messenger gripped in his and his comrades’ steel-coated arms).
“Sergeant, I trust you are acquainted with our new allies, the Groil.”
The sergeant nodded and shuffled his feet. The whole bloody city knew about the Groil. They’d been seen by the watch last night marching silently toward the Sorcerer’s Roost (the lone tower above the palace had a new name now). Who or what they were no one had a clue. But then no one was about to enquire further, especially since the rumor went they had just materialized from thick night air onto the soiled city streets.
“I am, my lord.” The sergeant kept his gaze on the flags at his feet.
“Well, it appears they are hungry fellows. I’ve bid their leader enter the dungeons and help himself. There are hundreds of prisoners down there, more than enough to keep the Groil legion well nourished and content for a time. Take this idiot below, gut him open, stuff his belly full of pigeons, and introduce him to master Droll, with my kindest compliments.”
The guards nodded and hurried to drag the unconscious messenger out of sight. The stench of the wretch’s piss smarted Caswallon’s eyes and darkened his mood again. He mouthed a spell and both puddle and stink vanished.
Caswallon frowned at the door as the guards’ heavy footfalls faded down the stairs. Life was strange and full of change. There were but two choices: Adapt and thrive, else grow s
tale and die. He’d chosen the former, but of course there were risks. Caswallon enjoyed the new powers awarded him by the Dog Lord. He grew stronger daily as the alien magic filtered inside his veins. But the feeling someone else controlled his actions gnawed at him rapaciously. Keep your enemies close, particularly warlocks. Caswallon would do just that.
He hadn’t always been as he was now. When a young man, Caswallon an Kella had been a staunch advocate of Kelsalion’s father, Kelperion the Third. But when that wise King passed in his bed, the heir showed little promise. Kelsalion was weak and his Queen controlling. Anyetta was shrewd. She distrusted Caswallon from the start. But conveniently she had drowned off Fol those many years ago.
After that blessed day, Caswallon changed tactics. He became bolder. In his defense the High Councilor got things done in the realm. He despised weakness and saw it daily in the High King. Kelsalion’s first born had been lost with his mother, as had his sister Leanna (Lord Halfdan’s wife) and her own baby son, the rightful heir to the throne.
Thirteen years later the despairing King proclaimed his heir to be Prince Tarin, a by-blow of a courtesan, thus not fully royal. And Tarin was weak, too, which again proved useful.
Thus aided by his Urgolais mentors, Caswallon had steered the realm in the direction he desired. He’d fed Kelsalion lies and had subtlety bullied the boy Prince. Soon both father and son became his puppets. Then the joyous day arrived and Rael Assassin struck the deathblow, leaving Caswallon to see to Tarin.
But Caswallon had made one mistake back then. He, who for so long had been meticulous in planning, had neglected something important. He’d been overcome with joy when Tarin had given in, taken the crown for his own. And after witnessing its noisy destruction, Caswallon, laughing out loud, had foolishly allowed the boy to scoop up the shards and flee the palace.
An error that, Caswallon admitted now. Still, the Assassin would have reclaimed the shards by now, so in a short while Caswallon could destroy them utterly with the correct word spell. His new masters had warned him if any of the shards remained there was a chance (a very slight chance, admittedly, but still a chance) that things might go awry. But Caswallon owned to confidence. It was one small oversight and soon would be forgotten. Or so he hoped. And now Ariane…
Caswallon leant back in his high-arched chair, his manner almost content. Once the Groil had feasted, he would summon Drol back, bid the leader send a squad of his creatures out into the wild lands surrounding that haunted forest. They needed to apprehend Ariane before she got tangled in the woody maze. Once beneath those trees Ariane would be hard to trace. Only Elanion knew what lurked in that awful wood. Caswallon had no love for Elanion or any of the gods. He saw them as self-seeking and hostile. Not that he had a problem with that, but why court such fickle beings? But Ariane and her people were devout followers of Elanion. If the goddess were to help her…. He couldn’t afford to take that chance.
Caswallon allowed himself a smile. Things in the main were going rather well. Soon he’d have Ariane naked and chained for his pleasure. Then the real recreation would start.
Chapter 7: The Northman
Drip, drip, drip and what’s that bloody snuffling below? Corin opened an eye, barely. He felt like shite, what with the room spinning and his head thudding and his belly growling rebellion. Never mind all that. Something lurked outside. Something nasty. Corin shoved the pillow over his head.
Bugger off…
It was useless. He’d have to get up and check the courtyard for spooks. What was up with him lately? Corin wondered if he’d pissed off one of the gods, or else a spiteful bog faerie like that wee blonde girlie in the tree. They were a capricious bunch, these otherworld beings. Once you upset one they’d ride on your back for years. Well, if some evil imp had cursed him, Corin had the perfect antidote. He would shove Clouter up its arse.
A scraping noise. Corin groaned, grumbled, rolled out of bed, and stubbed his toe, grumbled again and reached over to where Clouter leaned against the table. He slid steel from leather and pulled open the drapes.
It was foggy and damp out there, but not foggy and damp enough to hide the apparition lurking at the far side of the courtyard. Corin couldn’t really see much more than a vague dog shape, half hidden beneath cloak and hood. Now and then he caught a glimpse of snout and yellow eyes. Dogs in cloaks. Of course. Why was he surprised?
This isn’t good.
Corin got a very nasty feeling then. A kind of bowel-loosening, cock-shrinking, head-shrieking, knee-knocking crazy fear. That thing out there (whatever it was) was evil incarnate. Corin watched with numb lips as the dog-thing half shuffled, half hopped across the courtyard. It reached the door below. Corin glimpsed a blackened claw.
Corin felt a sudden urgent need to visit the privy. He held on to his bowels, just, but Clouter slid from his sweating fingers. The dog-thing below was working a spell on him. Fortunately it didn’t seem that familiar with door handles, its claws scraping and slipping but gaining no purchase. Corin reached down and retrieved Clouter. But just as he did, the dog-thing glared up at the window with those ghoulish yellow eyes and Corin dropped the longsword again. Then the latch turned click and the door creaked open.
Before Corin could react a rush of wings swept down on the dog-creature. There followed a cacophony of croak, snarl and snap. From somewhere a horn sounded. The raven took wing into the gloom. Corin, too startled to blaspheme, gaped at the open door below. The creature had vanished into thick air.
Again Corin retrieved Clouter. He waited a few minutes, minding the door just in case the dog-thing had got inside the building and was about to come visit. But somehow Corin knew it had gone.
The horn sounded again, closer this time and making him jump. Outside, a sudden shaft of lightning lit the courtyard, and rolls of thunder echoed off the cliffs beyond.
A voice boomed, silencing the thunder. Maybe it was the thunder.
The storm trawled high overhead. Corin heard distant voices and something else, hoof beats followed by more ghostly horns. Hounds bayed in the distance. Corin shivered and gaped skyward and saw that the fog had cleared to reveal storm dragons and something else. Corin leant on Clouter as his head thudded and stomach squelched. This had not proved an enjoyable week.
A shadowy host filled the heavens, their moonlit shrouds piercing fog and gloom. The leader rode a corpse-horse, lightning lanced down from the moonlit spear he brandished on high. At his lips was a huge horn on which he blew. Beneath this dreadful rider’s feet were shadowy hounds, and behind these baying hell-dogs marched the damned.
It was the Wild Hunt free to ride again.
Corin recalled the old man in the woods and shivered. The Huntsman had many guises, but this was how he was most often seen. Corin saw him up there, riding the night sky. He caught an urgent glint of blue fire beneath that wide-brimmed hat, and then the old Sky Wanderer was gone.
The horns grew fainter, fading from earshot. Inside moments, all was quiet and still, once again, the only sound the constant dripping of water from the lantern on the wall. Corin’s knees buckled and he slunk, sat gaping gormless on the bed. He wiped the sweat from his face, farted, and groped for the covers. Corin clambered beneath the cloth and again shoved the pillow on his head. At some point he must have nodded off.
***
Corin woke groaning as bright light stabbed beneath his eyelids. Outside, some infernal blackbird warbled cheerfully close by.
Shut up, bird.
Corin moaned and scratched his ear. He stretched and yawned and then lurched out of bed and, after filling the basin with the shite-awful water, immersed his throbbing head.
Corin felt horrendous this morning, which wasn’t surprising considering the amount of ale he’d put away last night. He would give up drinking, he decided, wincing as the morning sun lanced into his now half-open, bloodshot eyes.
Not a good night, really. Ghouls and warlocks stomping about in the wee hours. It wasn’t something that happened to everyday fo
lk. Had he dreamt up that dog-horribleness? Corin was unsure. Bit of a worry. He had no idea what was going on inside his head. The girl child up that tree was to blame, he suspected. Some spiteful wood-sprite that had decided to plague him out of sheer caprice. It didn’t make for a happy state of mind, what with throbbing head and log-thick tongue.
I need to eat.
Tired of the conundrum, Corin focused on breakfast instead, willfully banishing the harrowing events of the last twenty-four hours to a later time (probably much later), when his addled mind could cope with it.
He squinted at the mirror. What he saw there wasn’t reassuring either. Dark rings shadowed his eyes, and he badly needed a shave. The old scar on his forehead itched, adding to his general wretchedness. That scar had been a gift from the sword master in Kelthaine. A hard lesson from a man Corin had never got on with, it had taught him keep his guard up ever since. He had caught up with said sword master years later and settled the score.
Corin an Fol wasn’t big on forgiving. He’d seen much in the last fourteen years: wars, betrayal, hunger, and cold (and sweaty, stinking fly-horrible heat) would cover some of it, and then add on the treacherous whoresons, backstabbing weasels, and slippery merchants, not to mention those dark-eyed vixens who had cost him so much coin. Upshot: Corin trusted little and liked less. He had a certain attitude, and this morning was no exception.
That said, Corin considered himself more than just a mercenary. He had panache (so he believed anyway) and a flair for killing quickly, which he thought placed him above the common soldier. Despite this, he was kinder than most of his type, never hurting those smaller and weaker. Well... not without just cause.
Corin hopped and fell clumsily into his leather jerkin and trousers. He’d left the mail shirt with Thunderhoof, half hoping Master Tommo would repair the few broken rings and give it a polish (you never know your luck).
Corin’s garments were functional, basic and shoddy, but they served well enough. The boots were newer, recently purloined from a dead traveler in a wayside inn. Corin, never one to miss an opportunity, had helped himself to those nice expensive boots lying vacant by the bedside.
