by Sam Bowring
‘After the shadow receded, Corlas was found unconscious on the field, a wound on him to kill a lesser man. Instead he lived, and was taken from the fort into Erling’s Vale where the best healers are. The reports I had were that he recovered slowly but surely …and then, after he’d almost fully healed, he disappeared. At first I thought he must have grown tired of sitting around mending, as many good soldiers do, and had simply granted himself permission to return to his post …but weeks went by, and it became clear that he’d really disappeared. I sent soldiers to search the land between Erling’s Vale and the Mines, but they found nothing. Opinions formed about what had happened, but we never had any real information. Many thought the Shadowdreamer had managed to find Corlas and mete out revenge. Others believed that Corlas had deserted. All I know – I hate losing a Corlas.’
‘Well,’ said Fahren, ‘we’ll know what happened to him soon enough.’
‘Ah,’ said Naphur. ‘There’s the wise counsel I was kept waiting for.’ He turned to Baygis. ‘You would know of this man, son, if you had slept and eaten in the barracks as I did in my youth.’
‘Father,’ Baygis said, ‘if we must have this argument yet again, I’ll beg you to remember that it was at Mother’s insistence I did not become a soldier.’
‘Wilful bloody woman,’ muttered Naphur. ‘Just don’t pretend you weren’t happy with her intervention.’
‘Actually, Father, I was quite disappointed by it. You know I’ve never been one to shy away from new experiences.’
Naphur eyed his son suspiciously for any hint of sarcasm. Before he could reach a conclusion, the messenger arrived back to announce that Corlas was on his way. As Naphur turned to stride back to Borgordusmae, Baygis added, ‘And I doubt I’ll ever grow tired of looking at soldiers.’
Naphur pretended not to hear.
The court fell quiet in anticipation as footsteps sounded on the sunken stairs. Gerent Ratacks emerged, and with him came Corlas. The court was silently impressed by the man. He was physically intimidating, tall and wide, his torso wrapped in powerful muscles. Although he didn’t wear the uniform of a soldier, he walked with the same attention, his axe moving about his thigh like an extension of his body. His brown beard, moustache and hair were all thick, glossy and well groomed, and his features were hard, angular and proud. He strode towards Borgordusmae with assurance, ignoring the folk on either side, dropping to his knee when he got there.
‘My Throne,’ Corlas said. ‘My name is Corlas, of the bloodline –’
‘I remember you, Corlas Corinas,’ interrupted the Throne, framed by the golden light of Borgordusmae. ‘Do you suppose I’d forget the warrior who bested me at the Autumn Games?’
A few murmurs travelled about the court.
‘Arise!’ commanded Naphur, and Corlas straightened immediately. ‘I don’t feel like painting a rainbow here. Let’s get to the point: where have you been?’
Corlas stared ahead. ‘It has been very strange, my Throne,’ he said slowly. ‘I was at Erling’s Vale, as you would know, healing from the injuries given me at the Shining Mines. Once I could walk again, I did – around the vale itself, the Grass Ocean and …near to Whisperwood.’
‘Yes?’ said Naphur.
‘They say it is a place of Old Magic,’ said Corlas, and now he did meet the Throne’s eyes. ‘I believe it, lord. I fear I strayed there once too often. One day I was sitting by a stream near the forest’s edge when a magical creature came to me. A Sprite woman.’
Again, murmurs through the court.
‘Even now I do not understand it. I was …entranced. She led me into the forest. I was held in thrall by her for many years. I forgot who I had been. I forgot where I had come from. I forgot my responsibilities.’ Corlas shook his head. ‘It is hard to recall now. It was like a long dream.’
‘And never once did you dream about escape?’ asked the Throne.
‘I was bewitched, lord,’ replied Corlas. ‘It was not possible even to imagine escape. I did not desire it.’
‘So what happened?’
Corlas shrugged. ‘I couldn’t really say, lord. I woke up one morning and she had gone. For a time I was confused, disoriented. Then I began to walk home. As I went, I remembered much that I’d forgotten. Now here I stand: returned and restored to your service, my Throne.’
Naphur leaned back in his throne, frowning. Then: ‘High Mage!’ he called, and Fahren stepped forward. ‘High Mage, you have heard the man’s story. Does one who understands magic ,’ he spat the word, ‘believe this could be true?’
‘My Throne,’ said Fahren, ‘it is true I cannot sense any enchantment about the man now. As for the story he tells, I have heard of stranger things where magic is concerned. It is also true that Whisperwood is an unpredictable place, seldom ventured into, about which we know little. There are many tales of strange happenings there. It is said the spirits of the Sprites live there still.’
Fahren nodded, so imperceptibly that only Naphur saw it, and they shared a private understanding. Fahren was an extremely intuitive mage, excellent at sensing lies (something which made him an irresistible challenge to Baygis) and if Fahren believed Corlas, Naphur was inclined to also.
‘So, Corlas,’ said Naphur, ‘I suppose the question is, what shall we do with you? Your old post at the Mines is taken by a gerent to whom I do not begrudge the position –’
‘Nor I, lord. Nor was I ever gerent.’
‘– and I would prefer to keep you here at the Halls for a time anyway. We’ll have to make sure this enchantment has really worn off.’
‘If I may speak, lord?’
‘Speak away.’
‘I had not expected to be granted my old rank, nor do I wish for it.’
For a moment it seemed the light coming off Borgordusmae beamed a little brighter. ‘Indeed?’ said the Throne. ‘So you’ve returned to tell me you didn’t desert but that you now intend to?’
‘No, my lord!’ said Corlas quickly.
The Throne sat back, a stern expression on his face.
‘I do not wish to desert,’ reiterated Corlas. ‘Only to request a new position. It will be soon enough that my hair runs grey, lord, yet I always wished to build a family. I have lost six years and now …I wish to stay in one place.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I thought perhaps I’d have something to teach the young here. About battle.’
Naphur blinked as he realised what Corlas was asking. ‘You want to be demoted?’ he said incredulously. ‘To taskmaster ? You want to be a teacher ?’
‘I have fought well for you, lord,’ said Corlas, ‘in my day. Let me help others to do it in theirs.’
‘You aren’t that old!’ said Naphur. ‘And, by Arkus, if you are, that makes me old too – which I’m not – and I won’t stop being the Throne when my hair goes grey, let me tell you!’
‘My Throne –’ started Fahren, but Naphur cut him off with a raised palm.
‘I did not ask for your wisdom, High Mage,’ he said, staring hard at Corlas. ‘I can always use a good commander. I don’t like to lose them. Especially not twice.’
Corlas’s gaze returned to the middle distance. Naphur studied his unflinching features and received an inkling of how tired the man was. Maybe it was something in the grey storm of his eyes, or the lines on his face. If Corlas could inspire on the battlefield, maybe he could inspire on the training grounds too. Besides, Naphur would know where he was if ever he needed to call him to a greater duty.
‘It will be an odd occasion,’ he said eventually.
Corlas looked confused. ‘Pardon, my lord?’
‘Tomorrow night. In the barracks.’
Corlas continued to look puzzled, as did many of the courtiers. Fahren watched patiently, a smile darting around the edges of his mouth.
‘Well, it will be a rather forked event, won’t it?’ continued Naphur. ‘A feast in honour of a hero’s return – and the announcement of his demotion.’
Corlas relaxed as understanding sank in. ‘Thank you
, my Throne,’ he said gratefully.
Naphur leaned forward. ‘Now on your way before I change my mind,’ he growled. ‘We will talk more later.’
Corlas bowed deeply.
•
Corlas was relieved he had managed to tell the truth, even if it had been a thoroughly misleading version. He well remembered Fahren’s reputation for seeing through false claims and could not afford to be caught out at this crucial stage of the plan. As he headed down the stairs someone called him from behind, and his heart sank as he realised the High Mage bounced down the steps after him.
‘Glad I caught you,’ said Fahren, landing at his side. ‘I understand why you wish to make a hasty retreat. You’re probably exhausted.’
‘I am tired,’ agreed Corlas.
‘Yes. I just wished to know a bit more of this Sprite woman.’
Corlas wondered how long it would be until his façade was shattered. ‘Of course,’ he said, knowing there would be no escaping this. Better to try to satisfy the mage’s curiosity now and have it done with one way or another.
‘Would you tell me about her?’
If you would listen , thought Corlas, I could talk of her for hours. Instead he shrugged. ‘What would you know?’
‘You said you were enchanted. I’m curious about what form this enchantment took.’
That was easy. ‘I believed I loved her.’
‘I see. And …’
‘I thought her the most beautiful creature in the whole world, High Mage. I remembered no time before her and could imagine no time after. One day I woke up and she was not there. So I left. I don’t know what else to tell you.’
‘You were in that wood for years,’ said Fahren, growing more forceful. ‘Surely there is more?’
‘That is the way I remember it.’
‘Where did you live?’
‘In the trees,’ replied Corlas, lying outright for the first time. ‘In a house in the trees.’
It was an image he remembered from stories of Sprites he’d heard as a child. If he told Fahren he’d lived in a little hut in a clearing, Fahren might start to ask difficult questions.
‘There is something else,’ said Fahren carefully. ‘Some months ago, while you may still have been there, there were some very peculiar goings-on in Whisperwood.’ The mage raised a wispy blond eyebrow. ‘Do you know anything of this? Did you see anything strange?’
‘The wood is a strange place,’ rumbled Corlas. ‘Often I believed there was more than trees out there. Is that what you mean?’
Fahren looked searchingly into Corlas’s eyes for a long moment. Finally he frowned. ‘No,’ he said. His expression grew friendlier once more. ‘Well then, Taskmaster Corlas,’ he said, patting Corlas’s shoulder, ‘I should let you go. I’m sure you’ve much settling in to do.’
Corlas bowed his head. ‘Thank you, High Mage.’
Fahren nodded. ‘And, Corlas?’
‘Yes, High Mage?’
‘Welcome home.’
•
For two months Corlas took up the purposeful waiting that he was careful to disguise. It took great willpower to appear to be settling in and glad to be back. His welcoming feast had called for him to be jovial as he drank. In actuality the drink made his mood darker, and he found himself trying to chuckle with people he would have preferred to put an axe through.
One startling moment was when he saw the paintings made in his honour. He was especially interested in one tableau of the battle at the Shining Mines. It depicted him amongst raging forces of light and shadow, aiming a crossbow, his face fiercer than he’d ever imagined it. The target of the bolt was a dark silhouette all wrapped up in a billowing cloak, long cruel hands extended to the sky – the Shadowdreamer. Above was a vortex of dark blue energy, conjured by the Shadowdreamer, set to obliterate the both of them. Corlas had paused for a long moment before the scene and the disturbing memories it returned to him. It had seemed a lifetime ago, until right then.
As he’d requested, the Throne had made him a taskmaster. To his great surprise he discovered that he was good with students. It was only with the children that he forgot his simmering anger and disconnection from any kind of loyalty to the light. His troubles were not the fault of the young. What was more unbelievable was that the children, especially the younger ones, liked their big, gruff hero teacher in return. He felt conflicted about training them to serve those he no longer believed in, but as he kept telling himself, it was necessary if he was to achieve his end. The students would be the only ones he’d miss once he escaped with his son.
He’d seen the boy once. It had been a risk, but he had invented an excuse to visit the High Mage in the Open Tower. Under the guise of asking some questions about the ‘enchantment’ placed on him, he’d been able to sit and talk with Fahren while forcing himself to appear uninterested in the baby in the corner. He’d dared to ask casually about the lad, and Fahren had fed him some story about Bel being the orphan of two of the Throne’s noble friends. Corlas didn’t need any magical senses to know that Fahren lied. In those brief glances he’d recognised his own flesh and blood, even if the blue hair had been hidden somehow. As far as Corlas was concerned, Bel was not the child of power. Some kind of enormous blunder had been made, some superstitious folly. A fairytale from a hundred years ago was no reason to keep his boy cooped up in a tower.
Now, a month after that visit, Corlas made his way back to the Open Tower. He passed two of his students, a boy and girl, who smiled shyly at the fact he’d caught them holding hands. He chuckled to himself and silently bade them goodbye.
Arriving at the base of the Tower, he entered unchallenged and made his way up the spiral stairs. Here and there were doorways into libraries and mages’ quarters and whatever else. It all seemed quite empty at the moment, in keeping with Corlas’s timing. Many were at the Sun Court, where a meeting had stretched into the night.
It was a good distance to the top, but eventually he came to the landing before Fahren’s door. Two guards stood there. They came to attention as they saw his uniform, and straightened even more when they recognised him – since his return, the Great Corlas had become well known around the Halls. It had made it harder that people wanted to befriend him all the time, necessitating more diligence in maintaining his mask.
‘Sir!’ One of the blades saluted. ‘The High Mage is not currently in.’
‘I know that, blade,’ said Corlas. ‘It was Fahren himself who sent me. You are aware of the boy he currently keeps within his chamber?’
‘Sir?’
‘There is some dispute over his lineage. The court wishes to see him, so Fahren sends me to fetch him.’
The guards looked uncertain. ‘We aren’t supposed to let anyone in, sir.’
Corlas tapped the insignia on his shoulder. ‘Well, I’m not just anyone, lads. I’m the fellow who can assign you a hundred crawls through the mud in punishment for disobeying direct orders. And the way Fahren is getting worked up by Assicon Cydus, I wouldn’t want to be in your sandals if he has to storm over here himself to see his will done. He is a man currently in dire need of taking out his anger on someone.’
The guards glanced at each other with obvious worry. Corlas was thankful they were so young, probably fresh out of peacekeeping; older guards might have stood their ground. He didn’t want to use violence, especially since he had no idea what magical security measures Fahren might have activated. He was taking a huge risk as it was, but now it had begun he had to follow through. In this moment he would put to use and simultaneously dispose of his good name as the hero Corlas.
‘It’s true I took on the Shadowdreamer,’ he chuckled, ‘but I would not like Fahren’s gaze focused on me right now.’
The guards parted before him and he went to the door.
It didn’t take long to bundle up Bel and leave, ordering the guards back to their posts as he strode down the stairs. If they were any good at all, they’d already be questioning whether or not they’d made a mis
take. He’d blustered his way through with pure intimidation and might not have long. He couldn’t believe he had his child in his arms again; it made him heady …then anxious, for he held a gift he hadn’t yet won until he got clear, got away. Got back home to the wood. To Mirrow.
On the way down, Corlas encountered few people. A couple of times upon passing someone he tried to nod cordially, but felt gazes on his back. He held Bel closer, trying to enfold him from sight. Reaching the base of the Tower, he strode away into the gardens. Not far away was a disused shed in which he’d hidden a horse and supplies. As the shed came into view, Corlas sidestepped behind a tree and his heart sank. The horse was outside the shed and soldiers were standing around it. Maybe they’d heard it neighing. Of all the cursed luck.
Doubling back and moving wide of the shed, he headed towards the east gate. The portcullis was open and, as a taskmaster, he had no problem simply walking through, though the baby in his arms drew a few looks. He took the path down the hill, wondering how he would deal with the crippling blow of losing his horse. As soon as he was out of sight of the gate, he moved off the path and started to run. If he could make it to a farm or village, he could steal a horse.
Over grassy foothills he went, until he spotted a wood that might hide his passage. It lay just beyond one of the faintly glowing ward stones that ringed the Halls. As he drew closer, he scanned the tree line, and something made him come up short. He’d learned to trust his instincts and something about the trees seemed not quite right. Branches and leaves rustled in the breeze, moonlight chasing over shapes as the canopy shifted. What had it been? He leaned on the ward stone, catching his breath. Just as he decided it had only been his imagination, errant moonlight stole over a branch that had hitherto been shadowed. For a second he saw red feathers and glinting blood-drop eyes. The bird cocked its head, seeming to realise it was visible, and the moonlight moved on.
