by Shannah Jay
When one of the men turned round and saw them following, he shouted, ‘Go away! This is no place for lads like you.’
Kerril put on a pleading, whining voice. ‘Let us fight with you. We’re not too young to help. They killed my father. I want to get revenge for that.’
‘Oh, let them follow us,’ someone else said. ‘Just make sure they don’t run off at the last minute and betray us. You can never be too careful. Traitors are everywhere.’
So Shayla and Kerril found themselves pushed to the middle of the group and no one seemed to notice that Shayla was a girl, though to Kerril it was quite plain. He looked down at the staff and it tingled in a way he found comforting. Perhaps it was using its magic to hide her?
‘Stay near me, you two!’ the man watching them ordered. The sword tingled again in Kerril’s hand and the man stopped moving to stand perfectly still, his eyes glazed.
‘Now!’ Kerril hissed, took hold of Shayla’s hand and slipped away into the darkness.
The man began moving again a few seconds later, with no memory of the two youngsters. He was soon caught up in the fighting that erupted behind the main gate, fighting that was desperate enough to keep the men far too busy to think of anything but staying alive.
With the sword drawing them along, Shayla and Kerril hurried through the dark gardens. Neither spoke. They knew the sword wouldn’t lead them in the wrong direction.
The silence in this part of the palace grounds seemed just as threatening, somehow, as the noise of the fighting behind them and it was a nerve-racking few moments before they reached the rear wall of the palace itself. The sword suddenly stopped tugging at Kerril and remained quivering in his hand.
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‘What’s the matter?’ Kerril asked it, terrified that the wizard had bespelled it again. It tingled as if to allay his worries, then its end thumped down on the ground. He couldn’t lift it again. ‘I think it wants us to wait here,’ he told Shayla.
It was agonising to stand and wait, though, hearing the fighting at the main gates, knowing how hard it would be for the rest of the rebels to get inside the castle grounds.
The minutes seemed to crawl past. Noises ebbed and flowed in the distance, but nothing was happening here.
‘It’s all going too smoothly,’ Kerril said suddenly, shivering. ‘I don’t like it. Why have we stopped moving?’
‘You always find something to worry about.’ Shayla squeezed his arm for comfort, but she felt uneasy too.
‘That’s because someone has to do the worrying. And anyway, we’re getting what we want far too easily.’
And suddenly he knew, with all his magic senses, that something was going wrong, desperately wrong.
He knew Pavros had set a trap for Ronan and his brother was walking right into it!
***
As Ronan led the men upwards from the cellars, he once more experienced difficulty in following the call of the sword. Something else was blurring its call, and that something was calling to him softly. He blinked and stopped moving, trying to fight the sensation off.
‘What is it?’ Lorsim asked.
‘I suddenly felt—strange.’
Lorsim looked round uneasily. ‘Magic?’ he asked, eyes darting here and there.
‘I th-think so. I really need to get to the sword.’
At that moment a party of well-armed guards erupted round a corner and another group came from behind them to cut off the retreat of the group around Ronan.
The other rebels scattered and the guards let them get away, keeping back only Ronan and the men close to him. Grinning, the guards held them at bay with sharp swords and wickedly pointed spears.
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When they moved aside to let someone through, Ronan’s heart sank as he saw who it was. Bezroll!
The man they’d made a fool of. He prepared to fight as best he could, but without much hope. His opponent was well versed in fighting skills, as well as properly armed.
Then Bezroll smiled and took something out of his jerkin, dangling the object in front of the group.
‘Come to me, kinglet!’ he half sang. ‘Come to me now!’
The object scattered sparks around, sparks which seemed to fly right into Ronan’s eyes and burn themselves into his brain. He could only watch from inside his head as his body turned meekly to follow the huge lord, leaving his companions behind.
He tried desperately to resist this magic, but in vain. Despair surged through him as his feet continued to move. He knew he had failed and continued to struggle desperately to break free of this evil magic, but in vain.
Despair filled him. What was going to happen to him now? Where was Bezroll taking him?
He’d failed, wasn’t worthy to be king.
***
The rebels under Harrith were quickly successful. The group inside the grounds overcame enough guards to get through the main gates, then moved onwards towards the palace itself.
Guards poured out of palace doors and slashed their way into the thick of the fighting, but Harrith had been a good commander and hadn’t forgotten his old skills. Step by step he led the way towards the palace doors. Step by step the guards retreated before them.
People were killed or injured. Those still alive had to be left behind to fend for themselves. There was no time to help anyone, not if they were to have any chance of success.
When Harrith got to the doors of the palace, however, he found they were facing a barrier which no amount of force would overcome. They battered at the doors with logs taken from the firewood supplies, and the logs bounced off again as if the doors were slippery with grease. They tried to smash the windows and their stones stopped in mid-air before they reached the glass, then slid down to the ground as if they had hit an invisible barrier.
‘Sorcery,’ someone muttered.
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‘We’ll never get inside,’ said the woman next to him.
‘Then we’ll stay here until they come out!’ roared Harrith. ‘This is our country and we might as well be dead as continue to live like slaves!’
He folded his arms, planted his feet firmly on the ground and glared at the palace.
Most of them cheered and stayed with him. A few slipped away.
***
At the rear of the building, Kerril and Shayla felt the sword urging them to move again. They found they could cross the invisible barrier round the palace if they concentrated hard and held the sword at arm’s length in front of them.
A window swung inwards and they climbed through it. No one was waiting inside. When they’d climbed through, it swung shut again of its own accord.
They looked at one another and linked hands on the sword which was still disguised as a staff.
When it tugged at their hands, they followed wherever it led. Two might be better than one, but they needed Ronan now, needed to reunite all three of them before they confronted thewizard. Only together could they have the slightest hope of defeating him.
Where was their brother?
***
Ronan was taken to the Great Hall at sword point and left standing in front of the throne. Bezroll, who knew his master all too well, was taking no chances of the king disbelieving him when he said he’d killed Ronan’s son. Sevris had a way of slipping out of promises and holding on to his money.
Bezroll intended to get his sack of gold as reward. Besides, Pavros said they were not to kill the royal children till he’d seen them, and you didn’t disobey Pavros unless you had a wish to die horribly.
Ronan didn’t at first see the wizard, then the darkness behind the throne moved and he saw the outline of a man whose eyes held no light, whose every feature spoke of cruelty and hatred.
The young man felt calm inside now, resigned to death, though deeply grieved to have failed. He wouldn’t willingly obey men like these, but he was helpless against this powerful magic. As his father must once have been.
If he couldn’t regain the throne, he didn’t deserve it. He could only hope another claimant would arise soon and meet with more success than he had.
Sevris pressed back against the carved wood of his chair, feeling shaken to the core, so much did his nephew resemble Ronan. It was like his worst nightmares, as if his brother’s ghost had risen against him.
He glared at Bezroll, who had disobeyed his orders by not killing the lad on sight.
Bezroll stared back at him and kept one hand on his sword hilt. Ronan’s son wasn’t carrying the magic sword, even he could tell that, but you’d be stupid to take any risks.
Pavros moved forward slowly till he was standing beside the throne.
With the wizard next to him, Sevris pulled himself together. ‘So, nephew, your little rebellion has failed.’
Ronan said nothing and since he seemed able to move a little of his own accord now, he folded his arms and stared back at his uncle, his eyes steady and accusing.
Sevris scowled at this gesture, which made the lad look even more like his father, and chewed at one corner of his lip.
Pavros moved past the throne and came slowly down the steps to the floor of the hall. Half-way down he paused to point to the floor and say, ‘This is the exact spot where your father died.’
Ronan remained silent, pushing back the sadness that welled up at that thought and staring back at Pavros.
When the wizard reached the young man, he moved his hands, crossing them in the air before him and then stretching them out on either side of his prisoner. ‘Where is the sword?’ he demanded, for he knew he must defeat the magic blade once and for all if he was to hold his power here in Azaray. He didn’t intend to let it choose another claimant.
‘I don’t know. I lost it when I was captured.’
Frustrated, for he sensed the truth of this reply, Pavros drew back his hand and dealt Ronan a blow across the head that sent the young man spinning to the floor.
‘Where did you last see it?’ His voice boomed and echoed round the hall and every person there froze and tried their utmost not to be noticed.
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The apprentice stilled over the table of magic artefacts, lips pursed as a thought suddenly slipped into a mind so long without hope that for a moment it didn’t seem possible. But the thought was not to be driven away. There might just be a chance to do something, to help fight back against tyranny. The trouble was, how best to do it. There would be only one chance, one slender chance. And it wouldn’t come until later.
‘Where did you last see the sword?’ repeated Pavros.
Ronan got to his feet and faced the wizard, but struggle as he might, found himself unable to remain quiet. ‘In the market place. I left it on the ground—when I was captured.’
Sevris leaned forward. ‘He’s lying! My men would have noticed it.’
Pavros raised one hand. ‘Quiet! We must phrase each question carefully. He’s resisting more strongly than others could, for the sword is still linked to him.’ He looked at Ronan. ‘Why did the guards not notice the sword?’
Ronan tried once again to remain quiet, but found himself saying, ‘Because it had turned itself into a walking staff.’
‘Aaah.’ The wizard folded his arms, then gestured to the two guards nearest to him. ‘Fetch my table!
Carry it across here carefully.’
They brought the table, sweat beading their brows as they moved slowly and took extreme care to disturb nothing on it. The apprentice followed them and stood with downcast head beside it, waiting for orders.
‘Prepare the first spell!’
The apprentice began to assemble the ingredients required, laying them out in the prescribed manner and with the correct gestures.
Pavros folded his arms, supervising what was being done and conserving his energy.
Sevris sighed and leaned back, hating the sight of his nephew looking so strong and young. ‘Is this really necessary?’ he asked pettishly. ‘Can’t we just kill him and be done with the rebellion?’
‘You know it is necessary,’ Pavros said, in the tone one would use to a rather stupid child. ‘There is not just him to think of, but the sword and the other two.’
‘Well, I’ll not feel easy till he’s dead.’
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‘If you want my spell to succeed you’ll need to keep quiet and let me get on with it.’
Sevris sighed and shut his mouth, but his eyes kept going back to his nephew. Ronan had bred true.
Sevris hadn’t been able to get any children. That was Perella’s fault, of course. She must be unable to bear children. He’d have to take another wife.
‘Keep your thoughts quiet!’ Pavros roared in exasperation.
Scowling, Sevris concentrated on the pattern in the tiles that covered the floor.
***
In a corridor at the rear of the palace, Kerril suddenly stiffened and began to walk more quickly, then to run, dragging Shayla with him. ‘That man is going to try to suck Ronan’s mind dry!’ he cried. ‘We have to get there, have to take the sword to our brother.’
‘Won’t he notice us coming?’ Shayla panted, hard put to keep up with him.
‘He’s too busy with the spell at the moment. Come on! This is our chance! Our only chance.’
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25 THREE IN ONE
‘Now we can begin!’ Pavros threw back the corners of his cloak to allow his arms to move freely. He must make the correct gestures in exactly the right way, for this was a very difficult spell, one long forbidden to magicians, but which he’d found in an old spell book and seized upon with relish. ‘To me, Bezroll, Nezrim, Beffris!’
The three men moved forward reluctantly to link hands with him and stand in a circle around Ronan.
They didn’t like helping the wizard cast his spells, because it left them weakened, but had no choice.
The apprentice took a step back from the table, standing with head bowed.
Sevris leaned forward, his eyes eager. ‘Will it really bring the sword to him?’ he asked.
‘Shhh!’ Pavros let go of the hand he was holding to gesture angrily at Sevris, then had to wait a moment to compose himself before starting the spell.
That moment gave Kerril time to creep into the Great Hall from a side door and use his magic to slip past the guards, whose attention was all on the small group in the centre. With the sword’s help he dragged Shayla with him, pushing right into the circle of men around Ronan before they were even aware of their presence.
Bezroll saw them first, let out an angry exclamation and took a hasty step forward.
Kerril thrust the stick into Ronan’s limp hands. With a groan of relief he saw his brother’s sagging body and blank eyes come back to life again.
With a flare of brilliance, the stick turned back into a sword and a chime rang out that echoed round the whole room.
Shayla and Kerril moved automatically to stand behind Ronan, each with a hand on one of his shoulders. Light glowed around them, but couldn’t shine freely, for it was encircled by the hollow darkness of the evil circle.
Sevris moaned and began to chew at one finger, then drew his own sword and walked down the steps towards the circle. He didn’t attempt to join it, for he had not the slightest trace of magic to offer the THE MAGIC SWORD Shannah Jay 163
wizard, but hovered outside it. If his nephew got away, he would kill him quickly. ‘If I could kill his father, I can kill him,’ he muttered.
Pavros looked at the three young people and laughed. The sound echoed round the Great Hall and seemed to bounce back again and draw the circle of darkness more tightly around the trio who stood there so defiantly. ‘It has worked!’ he gloated. ‘You’re now trapped, as I wanted you to be. All three of you.
And the cursed sword with you. You’ll never escape me now.’
Ronan moved his sword to and fro and it
s light began to push against the darkness around him. He was unaware of his brother and sister, so close behind him, moving as smoothly as dancers and matching their steps to his. They were all unaware of everything but the task at hand.
The four men around them held firm, hands linked, destinies linked, too. Bezroll groaned once as a sharp point of light touched him and reminded him of the days when he had been an honourable fighter, proud of his skills. Beffris gasped and panted with the effort of holding firm, remembering a sunny day in his youth when all the world had seemed his to enjoy. Nezrim saw again a horse he had been fond of, one which had carried him swiftly over the hills. He had never been as happy as when riding the horse.
Grunting with the effort of holding firm, he glared at the three figures standing inside the circle, so close, yet in many ways very far away from what he was.
‘Apprentice, prepare the second spell!’ Pavros ordered in his booming voice.
The apprentice bent over the table, setting out the ingredients, removing the charred remains of the previous spell, brushing the centre of the space carefully. One by one the new materials were laid out, each of which linked to the next one and built up the wizard’s strength.
‘Hurry!’ Pavros ordered, for it was proving harder to hold the three youngsters back than he’d expected. Was it the sword or was it the other lad whose magic was making a difference? He looked like his brother, but his gifts were very different from any Pavros had met before.
‘Can you work no faster than that?’ he snarled. But he didn’t expect or receive an answer from his apprentice. Most of his attention was on the young king.
He didn’t wait for the spell to begin, but began to use up the rest of his and the other men’s powers to push the trio back and strike fear into them.
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