Misthaven: The Complete Trilogy

by J Battle

  He held up his hands, amazement on his face. What could he do with the power he now possessed? Who was there now who could stand in his way?

  With a quiet chuckle at the folly of his attempt on the prince’s son, he pulled open the door and stared down at the dead guard.

  ‘You didn’t see that coming, did you?’ he scoffed, as he stepped over the body.

  With a swagger in his step and clicking his fingers to the tune of joy running through his head, he walked along the corridor.

  ‘There you are, Meldon,’ said a tall arrogant looking courtier, dressed in the latest style, with silks and fur, and a flat hat drooping over one eye. ‘I need to see the prince this minute, if you please. So, run along and arrange it for me.’

  As he spoke, he turned to his companion, who was wearing an off the shoulder affair that would have suited a less hirsute person a little better.

  Meldon reached out and crushed his brain within his skull and laughed as he fell.

  The off the shoulder courtier raised one hand to his mouth before he joined his friend.

  A moment later, Meldon pulled open the door to the prince’s room.

  The prince was unchanged, unconscious with his back arched and his lean buttocks lifted from the bed as the Magic within him fought the poison.

  Meldon stood at the foot of the bed, watching the quivering body.

  ‘Not long now, my prince,’ he said, softly. ‘Soon, the Magic will fail, and the poison will have its way with you, just as I will have my way with the people of Fairisle. And why should I stop there? You were always satisfied with your place here, but there is no need for me to do the same. The world awaits me, my prince.’

  He was tempted to end it now. A thought would have overwhelmed the Magic that was keeping the poor man alive.

  But, no, he thought. He had a better idea.

  He stepped forward and stroked the prince’s well-shaved cheek, and brought him back to consciousness.

  His eyes flicked open, but he saw nothing. His mouth opened, but no words came.

  ‘My prince, it is I, Meldon, your onetime servant. Now I am your master. Do you hear me? Do you understand?’

  The prince threw his head from side to side, and then he began to scream.

  Meldon smiled, and he nodded. ‘That will do fine, for now,’ he said, as he left the prince behind him.

  He left the palace, and walked along the main road into the town.

  On either side, the beggars fell silent and dropped their beseeching hands, as if they sensed the change in him.

  Looking over their bowed heads, he noticed that the tangleweed was growing unchecked behind them. Soon it would begin to encroach on the road itself.

  Did he care?

  He laughed and said, ‘Not at all.’

  He strode into town, his step fast and eager, for he had the hunger on him.

  He saw her, standing on the corner of the road and looking young and innocent and hardly used at all.

  ‘Come with me, my dear,‘ he said, as he took her elbow.

  ‘What would sir like?’ she said, with a leer that was not at all innocent.

  ‘Oh, we shall see, my dear.’ he smiled in a most unthreatening way, feeling that he could rut all day and still be ready for more.

  Chapter 26 Mage

  ‘Will you do it, mage?’

  Mage Evens frowned at the idea, and then he turned to the fire. For no reason that he could fathom, he felt a sudden chill.

  ‘I know that I ask much of you, old friend, but I am not a soldier; you know this well enough. If I am to lead the king’s men against the Trytor, I will need…some advantage, to make up for my many failings.’

  ‘Ay, my Lord, I see that clear enough, I do. But the Wellstone is not my possession. I hold it in trust if you like, and this will need some serous thinking, if you will allow me the time.’

  ‘Of course, mage. We have time. Even if the king’s men make good speed, they are unlikely to arrive before tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow? That is little enough time, if I may say so, for the decision won’t arrive easily, and the task itself will require time to be done as it should.’

  Lord Richard stared into the fire for a moment, and silence fell between the old friends.

  After a long pause, the mage reached out and placed one hand on Richard’s shoulder.

  ‘I am so sorry, for what has befallen you. I wish there was something I could do to ease the pain.’

  ‘Ease the pain?’ said Richard, without looking up. ‘The pain is all I have left of them, mage. So, I will keep it here,’ he pounded his right fist against his chest, ‘for what else is there?’

  ‘You still have Alice,’ said the mage, simply.

  ‘Ay, I do, and, one day, that may be enough. But, not yet. Not yet, mage. There is a task to be done first and, when my duty is done to them, I’ll put this hate to one side and mayhap live again, but not before. Not before. I swear this before you, and before the Magic of the Wellstone, and my oath will not fail. If I lose my life in its fulfilment, then that will only be just.’

  ‘You still have Alice.’

  Richard stood up and towered over the mage.

  ‘Alice understands.’

  ‘Does she? Are you sure?’

  ‘She understands, and I’ll have your answer, mage, by tomorrow, if you will.’

  ‘Yes, old friend, but think on my words, if you will. You are not a soldier. If you stand against this creature, you risk everything. And you still have Alice.’

  Richard spun on his heel and marched from the room.

  The mage sat back in his chair and tapped his pipe against his knee.

  Could he do it? Could he really do what Lord Richard had asked of him? And would it be enough when he stood before the Trytor?

  He felt a sudden urge to pack his pipe with harroweed and lose himself to the world for a week or so.

  But, no, pipeweed would have to do, for now. He had things to think on, and he’d need his full wits about him, and that was the truth.

  **********

  Alice ran through the old woods, skipping over roots and ducking beneath low-hanging branches.

  Her father thought her too old now to be running about like a child, and she supposed he was right. But, they’d been back for a week now, and she missed her pet.

  It wasn’t unlike the beast to disappear for days at a time as she hunted, but Alice wanted to wrap her arms around her and press her face against her sleek, black fur and feel the powerful muscles within.

  ‘Raarwoar,’ she called, when she’d stopped for a moment to get her bearings. ‘Where are you, sweetness?’

  There was no sound from the trees around her, so she moved on.

  She’d emerged into a small clearing near the top of a hill when she heard a quiet rustle behind her.

  She spun around and raised her hands just in time, as 120 pounds of muscle leapt at her, with white teeth flashing.

  She laughed as they fell to the ground, with Raarwoar’s broad paws across her chest and her great jaws inches from her face.

  With a snort, a red tongue flicked out and lapped across her cheeks.

  ‘Oh, Raarwoar!’ She hugged the panther to her. ‘I’ve missed you so much. It’s been…horrible.’

  Then the tears came, and she sobbed into the big cat’s black fur.

  Concerned, but unable to understand her distress, the cat licked her face again, wiping away the tears.

  After an age, Alice pushed the beast from her and climbed to her feet.

  ‘You stink! What have you been eating?’

  She smiled and wiped her face with the sleeve of her dress. ‘I’m too old for that as well, I expect,’ she said, as she turned for home.

  The cat followed her. Not trailing directly behind her, but running through the woods on either side of her path, always keeping her in sight; but far too independent to even consider walking to heel.

  ‘Come along now,’ Alice called. ’We have to be home befor
e the sun dons its cloak and gets all ready to leave. I have a meal to prepare for father when he gets back, and I do not wish to be late.’

  We’ll never know what Raarwoar thought about all that as she kept her considerations to herself.

  A couple of hours later, Alice was wiping her face with the sleeve of her dress again as she worked over the hot oven.

  She’d sent away the kitchen staff as she wanted to do this all on her own, but they would be back later. She was cooking for her father, but she had no intention of being stuck with the washing-up.

  When her father arrived home, all silent and stern after his discussions with the mage, she sat him at the table, with a flagon of strong ale and a loaf of bread she’d baked for him, still warm from the oven.

  ‘Well now, this is a surprise,’ said Lord Richard, after a deep draw on the flagon.

  ‘There’s roast duck, and tatoes and greens, father. And a sweet pudding to follow, if I can get it to rise.’

  ‘You’re spoiling me here, you are.’

  Alice made no comment, but her flushed face smiled as he tore at the bread with sudden gusto.

  The duck was on the table, and Richard had just stood up to carve when there was a noise at the door.

  Jefro rushed into the room

  ‘Beg your pardon, Sir, but you asked us to watch out for them,’ he said, his broad frame filling the doorway.

  ‘Yes, Jefro?’

  ‘Soldiers, Sir. Been spotted, riding along the coast road, on their way to Hesselton, I reckon.’

  Richard lowered his carving knife, and he smiled at Alice.

  ‘See, my dear? I told you that the king would come to our aid. He’s sent his soldiers to help us.’

  Alice did not return his smile. ‘But you will still lead them?’ Her voice so soft that it barely carried across the table.

  ‘Ay, my dear, for that is my place. We have discussed this at length already, and nothing has changed.’

  He looked down at the duck. ’I must go now, to greet them and to be sure that they are settled and watered and fed for the night. But I will be back later for that pudding you promised.’

  He tried a smile, but she looked away, as if she could not bear to see him go.

  Without another word, he left the room, with Jefro trailing behind.

  Alone, Alice told herself that she would not cry. She was the woman of the house now, and she must be strong.

  Without a word, she cleared the table and stored the food in the cold room.

  Then she climbed the stairs to her bedroom.

  She almost made it before the first sob came.

  Chapter 27 Anders

  With a groan, he grasped the boulder that guarded the entrance to the steep winding path, his chest heaving as he gasped for breath.

  ‘There must be an…easier way,’ he muttered to himself when his breath returned to him. And there was of course. He could have simply strolled to the bottom of the valley and left via Hesselton, without working up a sweat or the indignity of panting for air.

  Taking that route, he would have been seen, and how many weeks would it have taken to reach this spot after walking along the coast and climbing through the next valley?

  No, this was the way to do it, without anyone asking questions about the mage’s man; not until he returned in victory. Then they could ask all the questions they desired, provided they remembered to show the respect due to the new mage.

  Yes, there would be changes, and he wouldn’t make the mistakes the old mage had, allowing the Stone to steal years and vitality from him.

  No, he, Anders Low, had read all of the old tomes; he knew all of the secret words, and he would not fall victim to the power of the Stone.

  He was strong, he knew that well, but strength was not enough for the new mage; he needed wisdom even more. And Anders was armed with all of the knowledge of Magic, gleaned by man over hundreds of years, and that would be enough.

  He sighed and pushed himself away from the comfort of the boulder. It was cold; even wrapped in two cloaks he felt it bite at him. And no wonder, he thought, as he stared at the leading edge of God’s Saddle, the great glacier that threatened to envelope Misthaven; the home of his people. Already it was beginning to lap over the edges into the neighbouring valleys.

  Only the power of the mage and the Wellstone prevented that from happening here; and how long would that last? With an old weak mage, and a Stone drained of power, there was little to stop God’s Saddle from having its way.

  Nothing but Anders Low; once named Slow Anders by his so-called friends.

  He glanced back the way he’d come, at the squat boulder and the wall of white mist that hid Misthaven from prying eyes. Next to the boulder there was a tall pole, planted there many years earlier, perhaps even by the current mage.

  The pole was ringed across its lower two thirds; the rings grouped together and dated. At the bottom, there were twenty rings, narrow and tightly packed, carved into the wood, and dated thirty years ago. The next group contained twelve rings and bore a date fifteen years past. The last contained only eight rings, from six years earlier. Each ring represented a single pace between the boulder and the edge of the creeping glacier. Thirty years ago, it had taken thirty long paces to reach it.

  Anders stared at the glacier, his eyes as cold as its surface. Would he even count to four? He strode forward and yes, just four paces between the unrelenting glacier and the boulder.

  The next time this spot was revisited, there would be nothing left to measure.

  Unless, that is, a new mage; a powerful, vigorous and wise mage, should appear with a newly born Wellstone and the strength to push back the weight of God’s cold breath.

  He turned and began his journey into the Outside, with his double cloaks, long sword and a surety that he would return with his prize.

  Anders travelled for nearly two days, much of it across the shoulder of the great white slow flowing river, until he came to the high meadows on the other side of the mountain. His long hair streamed behind him as he strode down the gentle slope, amongst the long wild grasses, speckled with white and yellow flowers. He passed unblinking sheep as he walked and he called his greeting to them.

  His greeting was not returned.

  At the bottom of the hill he came upon a road and following it, he was led to a village of perhaps 50 buildings gathered on either side of the road, with a quaint village square at it centre where the road widened briefly before continuing on its way.

  On the corner of the square, he found a tavern. Now Anders was by no means a drinking man; he’d spent too long over his books to fall under ale’s deceptive sway.

  Still he smiled, for he needed help, and what better place to find someone suitable to his ends.

  Just as he was about to enter, he was forced to step back by two rough looking and really quite rude individuals.

  They were shaking their heads and laughing.

  ‘Never seen the like, I tell you. Not in twenty years of drinking,’ said the first, as he pushed past Anders.

  ‘Don’t want to go in there, young sir. There ain’t the room for a start, not with a Giant sitting in the middle of the place.’

  ‘A Giant?’ Anders gave him a disbelieving look. ’We don’t see Giants as far south as this, never have.’

  ‘Take a peek for yourself then, and see if your educated eye sees something us ordinary men don’t. Because I saw a Giant. Didn’t we Jack?’

  Jack nodded his head vigorously. ‘He certainly drinks like a Giant, and you should have seen him eat, that were something to see. Yeah, he’s a Giant alright. Watch out he don’t trample you with his big feet.’

  Laughing, they set off across the square.

  ‘Giants? Nonsense,’ muttered Anders, as he took a step inside the tavern.

  There was a crowd gathered around the centre of the drinking room and he couldn’t see his way through them, so he went straight to the bar.

  As he waited for the barman to notice him, a d
eep voice began to sing.

  ‘This be my drinking song,’ slurp, ’ and I’ll sing it all night long,’ slurp, ‘and if you try to stop me, you’ll soon know you have it wrong, ‘cause this be my drinking song.’

  A tankard came flying through the air and was met with a roar from the crowd and a handy catch from the barman.

  ‘This be my drinking song.’ The voice began again, with the crowd joining in this time.

  ‘What can I get you, young sir?’ asked the barman, catching Anders by surprise.

  Now Anders wasn’t fond of ale, and he couldn’t take wine or spirits, and of course outside of the valley, he wouldn’t be drinking the water.

  ‘A small serving of your ale, please.’ He finally had to settle on.

  ‘A small serving of ale? What’s that when it’s at home and having its dinner?’

  ‘Shall we call it a half tankard? Is that clearer?’

  ‘A half a tankard? What do I do with the other half?’

  ‘Well, I suppose…’ It struck Anders that the barman was joking.

  He watched whilst he pulled a drink that, although it was much more than half, was not quite full.

  ‘You still have to pay for a full one, Sir. We don’t have a price for a half.’

  ‘That will be fine. Would you like a drink yourself?’

  ‘As long as I’m allowed a full one, then that’s very kind of you, Sir.’

  'What's going on here, then?' he said, gesturing to the crowd with his tankard.

  'Oh, he's been here since yesterday. They keep buying him drinks, and he keeps drinking 'em.'

  Anders spotted a small gap in the crowd and moved quickly to take advantage of the opportunity. He found himself standing just to one side of the subject of everyone's attention.

  Not a Giant, was his immediate impression, but big enough for all that. Even though he was sitting on the dark grey flagstones that made up the floor, his head reached as high as Anders' chest. And what a head it was. As wide as Anders' own shoulders, and topped with a flourish of red hair, sitting between shoulders that Anders would have been hard put to stretch his arms across. In each mighty fist he held a quart flagon which he waved about as he sang his drinking song.