Dragons and Destiny

by Candy Rae

  In the past, younger princes had been as thorns in the sides of the senior line of the Most Royal House of Murdoch and Xavier’s education had been designed to train him to be a support and not a suppurating ulcer. There was safety in numbers, princes could die without leaving issue and it was prudent to have a back-up but as soon as the Prince-Heir had a legitimate child, the younger sons became by default superfluous to requirements.

  Although Xavier had harboured a smouldering resentment at what he considered the unfairness of it all during his formative years, he had not begun to hate his brother until later.

  His brother Paul had married in AL588 when Xavier was eight. His brother and his wife had had four children and with each birth Xavier had seen his chance of becoming king disappear chunk by jealous chunk. When his youngest niece was a year old, Xavier had been married to the Daughter-Heir to the Duchy of South Baker. Junior princes were married to Daughter-Heirs if possible and then formally gave up their throne-right.

  He might have become reconciled to this in time, after all, as Prince-Duke of South Baker he had a seat on Conclave and was a powerful and rich landowner in his own right but Xavier hated his wife and after the birth of their second child in AL602 avoided her. Rumour had it that he had tried to have her poisoned. Now Duchess Harriet spent her days at her favourite manor and she and her husband only came into contact on formal state occasions. Xavier spent most of his time at Court where he maintained a suite of rooms more opulent than the rest of the court put together. South Baker was a rich duchy. Xavier also rented one of the large town houses beside the river where he hosted wild and expensive parties attended by some of the more dissolute members of the nobility. He kept slave concubines there too; for his own pleasure and for the pleasure of his guests.

  Xavier sat still and quiet during the ceremony, his speculative gaze set on one figure, Elliot’s sister, the fourteen year old Susan who was standing beside Kellessa Anne Fullarton as she listened to her brother speak his vows.

  Xavier’s thoughts were dark as pitch. He would never be a king, so be it, but if he couldn’t be a king in name, the next best thing would be to be the power behind the throne. He had in recent years been bending his energies to making this happen.

  His original plan had been to marry his wife’s cousin Beth to Elliot and once an heir had been produced, to dispose of his nephew Elliot and also his brother Paul. He knew as well as the next man that his father the King was ill and on his death he would have become regent for the baby king. Beth had died in that stupid accident and he had failed in his bid to replace her with her younger sister. Now however, he had Conclave approval for the marriage of Beth’s brother to young Susan, next in line to the throne after his nephew Elliot, His mind was working hard as he thought out a new plan to dispose of all the impediments between Susan and the throne.

  I have to find a way to get rid of my brother and that young upstart standing there. Perhaps I should just kill the lot of them including the three girls. Then I will be the Prince-Heir. Young Elliot shouldn’t be too difficult. He goes away tomorrow on that ill-advised ‘Grand Tour’ of his. An accident shouldn’t be too difficult to arrange. Not in the islands, he’ll be too well guarded but once he is in Argyll it will be a different story. Yes, nephew first, then the others.

  Xavier knew that if he eliminated his brother and nieces first Elliot would be summoned home and felt sure that the King would insist on his grandson marrying immediately.

  That young brat will probably get her pregnant on their wedding night and all my planning will come to naught just to spite me. Elliot must never set foot in Murdoch again.

  Xavier sat making his plans, his well-schooled face devoid of emotion and giving out no inkling of his thoughts, or so he thought.

  There were two men in the congregation who were paying little attention to the service. They were watching Xavier. The Lord Marshall was one. Peter Duchesne was sitting near the front. He had a very clear view of the Prince-Duke and what he saw filled him with a great deal of disquiet. Baron Peter Ross also watched and vowed that he would protect Elliot even if it meant he had to give up his life. Lost in his dreams and plans Xavier was unaware of their scrutiny. He rose from his seat and left the chapel. He did not attend the celebrations that followed. He had other fish to fry.

  * * * * *

  Elliot

  The lengthy cavalcade encompassing the Prince-Heir, his Companions, retinue to the islands and servants left the palace early next morning to the accompaniment of noisy farewells.

  If Elliot felt that the bodyguard were riding rather too close for comfort he said nothing. He didn’t attach any significance to it. It was only later that he began to wonder and mentioned the fact to James Cocteau who was as usual riding beside him. The latter laughed it off in his usual happy-go-lucky fashion.

  Baron Philip Ross and Kellen Derek Merriman remained close too. Philip had taken Derek into his confidence and had told him of the Lord Marshall’s concerns about the safety of their Prince.

  Derek hadn’t laughed away the danger.

  * * * * *

  At the same time as the royal frigate raised her anchor at Port Duchesne, another, smaller ship was also leaving the shores of Murdoch.

  It was a merchantman, the Dalinabell, bound for Argyll with a cargo of sand, the special desert sand much sought after for glassmaking and in short supply on the northern continent. The merchantman often carried passengers. This morning she set sail with two.

  The Skipper had been in two minds whether to take them or not. There was something not quite right about them. At a cursory glance they looked normal enough. Their clothes were not new but they were of quality. This was not unusual, merchants often bought clothing discarded by the nobility, there was a lucrative trade in such garments. Court fashion tended to change quickly. The men’s collars were just that wee bit too long, the lace round their necks too flamboyant. It was not their attire that aroused his suspicions or their accents. They spoke in a dialect common to central Murdoch. It was their belts that aroused the Skipper’s interest. They were swordsmen’s belts. The marks left by the missing weapons were visible and the Skipper was an observant man. He wondered who they really were and what they were up to.

  When he named the price for the journey the two didn’t attempt to haggle. The Skipper nearly threw them back on to the wharf on the spot. Any bona fide merchant would have haggled down to the last quarter-bit and the price he had quoted was over two times the usual fare. He shrugged his shoulders and took their coin.

  “Cabin’s small but the bunks are bug free,” he said. “Food is included in the price.”

  “We have brought our own food,” said the taller of the two.

  “Suit yourself, no skin off my nose. What’s your business in Argyll? If it is illegal then over the side you go. I’m an honest seafarer.”

  “We’re merchants,” said the shorter, younger man.

  “You’re no more merchants than I’m the King of Murdoch, God Bless His Majesty.”

  “Just forget about us being aboard,” said the taller one, stepping forward and showing the Skipper what he held in his hand. “Perhaps if we triple the amount already agreed upon it might aid you with your forgetting.”

  “Done,” said the Skipper.

  * * * * *

  Wylie was perhaps the busiest harbour on the northern continent. Only Port Lutterell could rival it for size and it would provide the two men with their best chance of getting into Argyll unobserved. This was why the two had taken passage with a merchantman going to Wylie other than one of the passenger ships. Ships using the smaller harbours attracted more attention from the customs officials but at Wylie, an extremely busy cargo port, the officials were overworked.

  The Dalinabell was well known at Wylie. The customs man who boarded her greeted the Skipper as an old friend and gave the cargo manifest a less than detailed perusal.

  “Any passengers?” he asked.

  “No,” lied the Skipper.<
br />
  The official noted ‘passengers nil’ in his log book.

  The official was still in sight, but disappearing when the two men appeared on deck.

  “We’ll be off then Captain,” said the older one. “My thanks for a pleasant journey.”

  “Where you heading?” asked the Skipper.

  “Inland,” the older man said, waving his arm northwards.

  The Skipper was sure the man was lying. The second mate called out and the Skipper turned to see what he wanted. He did not see the two pick up their bags and walk to the sally port. When he turned round they were gone.

  He stifled the feeling of unease and got down to the onerous work of divesting his ship of her sandy cargo.

  * * * * *

  Hilla

  It was at noon break when the letter arrived. It was handed to Juvenis (First Year Officer Trainee) Hilla Talansdochter by the stern faced drill sergeant. Hilla was not the only one to receive a letter that day, not by any means, nor was she surprised to receive one. Her sister Zilla wrote regularly, at least once a tenday and her elder sisters who lived in Stewarton took turn and turn about to write each month.

  She glanced at the envelope and started. Rilla’s writing by all that’s wonderful. Hilla suppressed a thrill of excitement; this was the first letter the middle triplet had sent since her vadeln-pairing with Zawlei and their departure for Vada. This was a treat that she had been looking forward to ever since she had heard the amazing news.

  The contents of the letter from Zilla telling her about Rilla had been a shock to the eldest triplet. If she was honest with herself, Hilla had never thought Rilla would have had it in her to accept the challenge of a Lind life-pairing and leave home to become a soldier. In point of fact, Hilla had been a tad jealous, after had it not always been she, Hilla who was the boldest of the three? She was the one who had joined the army. Why, Rilla had never expressed the slightest preference for such work and now there she was at Vada learning how to become a soldier.

  The fit of jealousy hadn’t lasted long. She loved her triplet sister, the three of them were closer than ordinary sisters - these ties nothing could sever. The jealousy had disappeared to be replaced with pride and an interest in what Rilla was doing.

  Zilla’s second letter after the event had contained a bit more information - about their father’s anger and of Talan’s trying to put Zilla into Rilla’s place as the wife of Councillor Horatio Ander’s son.

  ‘Father has disowned Rilla,’ Zilla had written, ‘and has forbidden me to write to her but she said before she and Zawlei left that she was going to write to you. Please write back to me telling me how she fares.’

  Now Rilla had written a letter and Hilla couldn’t wait to read it. She bit her lip in frustration. The eldest triplet knew that she wouldn’t be able to anytime soon. After the noon meal she and the other Juvenis had classes to attend, classes that would keep them busy until Seventh Bell.

  She took the letter with a word of thanks and tucked it inside her uniform tunic.

  Like the other infantry officers in training within the Garda Academie Hilla’s uniform was navy blue. Cavalry, both heavy and light, wore dark green.

  Thought Hilla as she finished her meal and began to gather up her plates and cutlery; if Rilla had been so bent on adventure why hadn’t she come to Settlement, joined the cavalry and then they could have been together? Then she remembered Zilla’s words.

  ‘… it all came as a tremendous shock to our sister but I’m sure she’ll do well and be happy with her Zawlei. One day you must meet him. He’s a most magnificent creature.’

  One day, thought Hilla, I will. She put her dirty plates and cutlery in the correct slots on the trolleys, which once full the kitchen boys would wheel to the kitchens.

  She turned to her great friend amongst the Juvenis who had also received a letter. Jen Durand looked none too happy because like Hilla she would have to wait some bells before she could begin to read too. Her sister’s first child was due any day and Jen was anxious for news.

  Both year groups of the officers in training, the Juvenis of the First Year Staticum and the Senis of the Second Year Staticum lived their days according to a rigid timetable. For the Juvenis the pre-noon bells were dedicated to class work, the afternoon bells to physical lessons. In the Second Staticum year this was reversed.

  “Come on Jen,” said Hilla. “We’ll be late and what will Leftenant Hallam do if we are? Fatigue duty for the next tenday if we’re lucky and more if we’re not.”

  Jen allowed Hilla to steer her out of the refectory.

  “You know well enough he’s not likely to come down on us that hard. Even a blind man could see that he’s taken with you.”

  “You’re imagining things,” said an embarrassed Hilla, a flush searing her hot cheeks.

  “He does, he does,” teased Jen. “He finds you most attractive.”

  “Rubbish,” hot coals wouldn’t have made Hilla admit that she found the handsome young Leftenant equally interesting. “Don’t be a vuz,” she added in a cross voice, cheeks beginning to return to normal.

  The two, with the other forty-six Juvenis were by now marching towards the practice buildings. Their practice armour was stored there in an old ramshackle building, once, rumour had it, it had been the meeting hall of the earliest settlers.

  Hilla reached a long arm to the rack and pulled hers down with a grunt. The armour the Garda wore was comfortable but not light.

  Back in the first days after landing and faced with annihilation, the settlers had looked back to the history books for inspiration about how to protect themselves in a battle. The Garda armour was the result. It was loosely based on the Roman Legionaries of first century Earth. It hadn’t changed much during the intervening centuries although the short Roman ‘skirt’ had been replaced by leather trousers with thigh and shin plates. The Garda continued to fight with the short Roman sword, carried the long shield, fought in formation and drilled endlessly in the different manoeuvres that had made the legions so effective in ancient times.

  Today the Juvenis were to train with pikes and not the sword or javelin that Hilla loved. Armour on, she and Jen marched out to the practice field where Drill Sergeant Jillson was waiting for then, the racks containing the pikes at his side.

  Hilla hated the pike. Carrying it made her arms ache. The trick with pikes was the ability of the pike-squad to keep the pikes doing exactly the same thing at exactly the same time. Unfortunately the pikes had a tendency to do exactly the opposite. The command ‘about turn’ was often the one that spelt doom for trainee pike-men and pike-women. Last time they had practiced Hilla had committed the ultimate sin. The unwieldy pike had slipped out of her hand as she had slammed the base into the ground prior to turning. It had wobbled for a moment or two then toppled to the ground, threatening to knock out if not kill her fellow squad members.

  Hilla was in mortal dread of it happening again.

  She took her place, grounded the hated pike and assumed the ready stance. This was the easiest part of the drill, with everyone standing in a single rank and about to perform the set moves a pike squad would use in a battle situation.

  “Out,” commanded the Sergeant and her left leg came forward and her pike came out. The squad’s job was to hold the pikes in a steady line so that the barbed end could impale or knock a rider of his horse. “Down.” The pike ends were lowered to a horizontal position. This position was designed to combat attacking Larg kohorts who didn’t have riders on their backs but was hard to hold the pike steady. The strain on Hilla’s arms grew and beads of sweat appeared on her forehead. “Present,” commanded Sergeant Jillson and the pikes were grounded once more.

  Today, much to Hilla’s relief (and to the relief of not a few of the others), Sergeant Jillson decided that enough was enough where pike-work was concerned after a bare quarter-bell. She was not to know that Leftenant Hallam had decided that they all needed more work strengthening their muscles before the more intricate w
ork was tried and had given orders to that effect. The men and women in the pike squads were big and strong and pike-work was a difficult skill to teach at the Academie although as future officers they had to understand how pike troops operated. In later years they might have to command both militia and regular pike-men and pike-women in the field.

  Hilla and the others placed the hated pikes back in the storage racks and picked up the short speared javelin. Spear work was far more to Hilla’s liking and she managed the drills well, earning a few guarded words of praise from the Sergeant.

  After this they had a short rest and as one ran to the water butts to slake their thirst. Sergeant Jillson marched away and was replaced by the sword instructors.

  This is more like it, thought Hilla as she practiced her moves. She did so love sword-work. She, Jen and the others were using the short sword but officers carried their own, longer sword, their personal weapon. In their second year instruction would be offered in the long-sword. Her own long-sword, the one her sister and brother-in-law had given her was locked away in the armoury for now.

  The practice session ended with more drill, the moves an infantry squad used on a battlefield. The moves were learned by rote, just as the recruits learned.

  Leftenant Hallam dismissed them and Hilla, Jen and the others marched away to make the most of the free time before the evening meal.

  At last Hilla was able to read Rilla’s letter.

  ‘Dearest Hilla,

  You’ll probably have heard the news by now. I am at Vada. Zawlei appeared at the stables, right out of the blue and what an escape! No doubt you are surprised but no more than I was when it happened. You always wanted to be a soldier, me never, yet here I am and enjoying it up to the hilt.