Soren, meanwhile, was kept in his box the whole time. A special group of Isharites had watch over him and his box, which had been placed on a second cart away from the others. Moneva had never seen them open it to let some air in, or give him anything to drink.
When they stopped for rests they would manhandle her off the horse, and dump her on the ground. But they made sure that she got enough food and water. She would always sit away from the others but sometimes near enough that she could take surreptitious glances to see how they looked. She knew better than to do more than that. Gyrmund didn’t. The first time he had started to call over to her. Herin quickly shoved an elbow into his ribs so that it came out as a meaningless yell. The Isharites walked over and kicked him. Moneva stared at the floor, a lump in her throat, praying that he wouldn’t be so stupid again. He wasn’t.
Most often she sat alone while a group of them would eat and stare at her, talking amongst themselves with their leery faces trained on her. One would say something and the others would all laugh, staring at her all the more fiercely. She repeatedly asked herself why they didn’t rape her, why they stopped short of any direct sexual contact. She assumed that Arioc had given the order, and that they were too scared to break it. But she didn’t know that. He wasn’t with them, and she hadn’t seen him since the day of their capture. So, she said nothing, didn’t react, or draw any kind of attention to herself. She behaved the same way day after day, in the hope that if she did, they would leave her alone again; and surely, eventually, they would get where they were going, and the journey would end. She deliberately didn’t think about what would happen then.
It had been obvious to Moneva that they had been travelling northwards, and that the lands of Ishari were the most likely destination. But her geography was pretty poor, and anyway, those lands were steeped in mystery, since few people had been there and returned to tell the tale.
There were signs of permanent habitation. They travelled on proper roads, and she saw grazing animals in the distance. But no buildings, and no other travellers.
Then a huge fortress emerged on the horizon, growing bigger as they approached. Moneva had seen nothing like it before. It hadn’t been sited on any significant geographical position. The surrounding land was flat and featureless. It was as if it had been dropped down in this location from the skies. Its walls were three times as high as any she had ever seen before, with huge circular towers in the corners. A huge wall extended out in either direction from the fortress proper as far as the eye could see, presumably enclosing a vast complex. The most remarkable thing was the colour. It was not just the dark jet colour of the stone; but that the walls, when touched by the pale sun above, glimmered and sparkled, as if infused with some dark magic, which, thought Moneva, was entirely possible. The whole effect was to suggest that crossing to the other side of the immense wall would take you into a new, unknown world, somehow separate from the rest of Dalriya.
As Moneva began to wonder what they would find behind that wall, her rider steered the horse away from the rest of the convoy. One other rider joined them. It was all done in seconds, with no talking or farewells to their comrades. They were making their way directly towards the fortress, along a gravel road, while the rest of the convoy headed in a more north easterly direction, presumably to some other part of the complex. She turned back in her seat. She made eye contact with Gyrmund and Herin who were staring in her direction. Clarin seemed to be slumped asleep on the cart. She then turned around again.
The two riders seemed to be in a hurry. They trotted their mounts over towards the huge metal plated gates which were the main entrance to the fortress. As they neared, Moneva realised that the glimmer of the walls came from crystals which had somehow been embedded amongst the black stone of the wall. When opened, the gates would be big enough for ten cavalrymen to ride through abreast. Above them, about ten feet up, a small, square section of the metal gate swung open with a squeak, large enough for a head to pop through. The head belonged to an Isharite soldier, and a brief conversation ensued. Moneva still found the language incomprehensible, and they talked fast, but she did notice both her captors and the fortress guard use the word ‘Arioc’. It was impossible to tell how the conversation went, since their faces showed no emotion that she could read. After a short time, the head poked back inside, and the metal window was slammed shut.
They waited outside. Moneva’s body gave an involuntary shudder. Her rider noticed and said something to his comrade on the other horse, before putting his arms around her chest and giving her a hug. Both of them laughed. Moneva stared straight ahead at the gates, trying to keep her breathing steady. Shortly, another squeaking and grating noise preceded a door being opened. Like last time, it wasn’t either of the main gates. Instead someone had opened a smaller door that had been built into the main gate. Moneva had not noticed it before.
Once opened, the two riders manoeuvred through the gate. Six feet ahead of them was another length of wall. Any attackers who made it through the gate would, at this point, find themselves trapped between the two walls which ran parallel to each other. She got a brief glimpse of the inside of the outer wall, which was a complex of stairs and platforms leading all the way to the top. It seemed lightly manned at the moment, but could clearly hold many fighters if necessary. Before she could take in more they were off, turning left and moving between the two walls until they headed through a gap in the wall on their right. They continued straight ahead for a while before some more zigzagging brought them to the entrance to one of the huge towers that Moneva had seen from a distance. One guard stood sentry. The two riders dismounted and one of them lifted Moneva from the horse. After a brief conversation with the guard they were admitted in.
The entrance room was sparsely furnished. A closed wooden door faced them. Instead, the soldiers gripped Moneva’s upper arms and guided her towards the set of stone steps. They were steep, twisting stairs, winding their way up to the next floor of the tower. Moneva’s legs felt stiff from all the horse riding, and she had trouble with her balance on the first few steps with her hands still tied. But the two men then gripped each arm and part shoved, part lifted her up the stairs, so that she had to quickly move her feet to find the stairs to avoid being dragged up.
They arrived at a wooden door leading to the rooms on the second floor. One of the soldiers banged on the door roughly. Then, without waiting very long, banged again. The door was unlocked and opened from the inside. Another Isharite stood in the doorway. He glared sternly at each of them, showing no surprise that Moneva was standing in front of him. He began questioning the two men. He seemed older, or at least superior, to the other two. But it was hard to tell. He had the same dark colouring as the rest of the Isharites and his faced showed no obvious signs of age.
Making a strange clicking noise with his mouth, he waved his hands at the two men to bring her in. Moneva was propelled into the room. Even though she knew how big the tower was, the room seemed huge. It was expensively furnished with handcrafted bookshelves, soft Haskan rugs, a wardrobe, and scattered with other strange objects she had never seen before. Three doors led off from this room, all closed. There didn’t seem to be anyone else in.
‘Welcome to Lord Arioc’s chambers,’ said the man easily. ‘I am Babak.’
Moneva made an involuntary gasp, both because she had not heard anyone speak Dalriyan for days, and because of where she was.
He paced over to one of the doors and opened it.
‘You will be staying in here until he returns,’ Babak informed Moneva casually, his accent thick, emphasising the consonants.
Making the same clicking noise at the two soldiers who had brought Moneva here, he waved an arm at the room. Grabbing Moneva by the arms once more, they propelled her into the room, which was much smaller, and dominated by a four-poster bed. The men didn’t stop, and before she realised what was happening they had thrown her unceremoniously onto the bed. She picked herself up to the sound of their laughter.
Both men were staring at her, one of them licking his lips. But, to her relief, they turned around and sauntered out of the room.
Babak appeared at the doorway. He looked at her but said nothing and closed the door, staying on the other side. She heard the click of the door being locked. Moneva was alone for the first time in a week. And she began to cry—big, heaving sobs, which she hid by pressing her face into the mattress of the bed.
7
Friends and Enemies
THE WARM SPELL THEY HAD BEEN ENJOYING in Magnia showed no signs of stopping, though there was enough of a breeze to make travelling comfortable. Edgar, accompanied by a small entourage, approached Wincandon, the lair of his enemy. Cerdda, Prince of North Magnia.
At least, that’s what Magnian history recorded: two families, bitter rivals who ruled a divided country. But recent events had questioned that old narrative. South and North had united against a much more serious enemy. They had come together to form an army, led by Cerdda’s brother, Ashere. This army would now be active, helping to defend the Brasingian Empire from Ishari. And here, in Wincandon, they would perhaps achieve even more.
Wincandon was a small agricultural estate, surrounded by the lush Magnian countryside. But it was owned by the royal family of North Magnia and here, in Cerdda’s hall, a Conference of the South was to be held.
Edgar nudged his horse onwards into the village. Orderly, well maintained houses sat either side of a dirt track that led to the hall, visible in the distance. To his right, just beyond the houses, the gentle tinkling of a stream provided some background noise. Looking across, he saw a large, vertical waterwheel that dominated the skyline. A watermill had been built on the near bank, providing the villagers with the power to grind their grains into flour.
When they reached the hall, Cerdda was waiting for him outside. Edgar dismounted as servants arrived to take away the horses. Cerdda approached and they embraced.
‘You found us, then?’ he asked.
Edgar nodded. ‘We made good time. Some hall you have here,’ he added, taking in the size of the building before them. It was larger, by a distance, than any hall in South Magnia.
‘Yes. This is where we spent our childhood—I have fond memories of the place. I have enlarged it since. It’s a place to get away. For family time. Talking of which, you must come in and meet them.’
Edgar followed Cerdda into the hall. It was light and airy inside. Groups of armed men had claimed different parts of the hall for their own, talking amongst themselves while servants brought them food and drink. They made their way towards the back of the hall. Edgar noticed some familiar faces on the way. He nodded to Frayne, the Middian chieftain who had participated in the Conference that Edgar had hosted some two weeks past. His presence was a good sign that the Middians might be willing to raise more soldiers.
A set of wooden stairs zigzagged its way up one wall to a second floor. The two princes took the stairs. Half way up, Edgar could hear female voices talking above them. The stairs opened into a large reception room. An unlit fireplace dominated the opposite wall. In between, there was a table, with trays of food and wine glasses atop it. Half a dozen chairs were positioned around it, with rugs and cushions scattered on the floor. To the right, three doors led off from the room, presumably bedrooms.
Three women were in the room, all working with needle and thread, which they put down when the two of them entered.
Now that he was here, Edgar felt hesitant. He wasn’t used to female company. He had grown up an only child, and his relationship with his mother had always been somewhat distant, more so since the death of his father, and his inheritance of the throne. More than that, however, the people in this room had been enemies of his family in the civil war. He wasn’t at all sure how they would react to him.
‘Edgar, may I introduce the three most important people in my life. My mother, Lady Mette,’ Cerdda began.
‘Please, Cerdda,’ said Mette, standing, ‘Mette will do. It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Edgar.’
More than once, Edgar’s father had emphasised how beautiful Mette was, and he could now see for himself. She had a deep brown skin tone with large, almond shaped eyes, framed by straight, jet black hair. Edgar moved to take her hand. Instead, Mette opened her arms and embraced him.
Releasing him, she took over the introductions.
‘This is my lovely daughter-in-law, Irmgard,’ she said.
Irmgard, Cerdda’s wife, was a handsome woman with more typical Magnian looks. She was tall and slender, brown hair hanging loose to her swan-like neck. She seemed more reserved than her mother-in-law, allowing Edgar to take her hand and plant a kiss.
‘And Elfled, my daughter,’ finished Mette.
Turning to Cerdda’s sister, Edgar found himself looking at the most attractive woman he had seen in his life. Elfled had inherited her mother’s dark brown eyes and dark hair. Her hair was curly, however, falling in ringlets about her face. Her skin, like her brother’s, was a golden-brown colour.
‘Hello Edgar,’ said Elfled, embracing him just like her mother had.
Edgar froze. The closeness of her, the smell of her, threatened to overwhelm his senses. His mind went blank and refused to work properly. When she withdrew, he became conscious that he had been speaking, but had no idea what he had said. He looked around at the faces in the room. No-one was making a face as if he had said anything stupid, but he suspected that they might all be too polite to let him know if he had.
‘Is your mother well?’ enquired Mette.
‘Yes,’ Edgar replied, recovering. ‘I visited with her a few weeks ago. She is very content.’
‘I am so happy that we have got the chance to meet you at last,’ said Mette. ‘You will both be very busy today, and it is not a time to dwell on the past. But I wanted to let you know, Edgar. I have never felt any resentment towards you. My husband and your father ended up on different sides in the civil war. Bradda believed that he could no longer support King Alfrith. Your father decided that he must. But there was never any personal animosity between them. Your father acted with honour in everything he did. So have you. I am proud that you and Cerdda have started to build bridges. It is time to put the past behind us.’
‘Do you two have time to stay awhile and have a drink with us?’ asked Elfled. ‘We have some Cordentine red. It might help you get through the evening.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Cerdda. ‘We have more guests arriving, and—’
‘Yes,’ said Edgar, interrupting. He found himself a seat on one of the chairs. The only way he was leaving, he had decided, was if he was dragged out by a demon.
Edgar rubbed his eyes. He was struggling to stay focused on the discussion at hand. He had, perhaps, had one glass of wine too many. Lord Rosmont, representing King Glanna of Cordence, was demanding chapter and verse on what he would be getting for his master’s money. As with the earlier force sent to the Empire under the leadership of Prince Ashere and Farred, the Cordentines had not been persuaded to supply their own soldiers, but were prepared to bankroll others. Edgar accepted that it was necessary for them to make sure that nobody ran off with their money. But since most of Glanna’s money would be going elsewhere, Edgar found it hard to stay interested.
Instead, his mind kept returning to Elfled, Cerdda’s sister. There was something about her. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her when she was in the room, and kept thinking about her when she was gone.
Making his excuses, Edgar left the negotiating table. The conversation continued without him. He headed out of Cerdda’s hall and took a few deep breaths of fresh air. It was a warm summer evening, and he felt a fleeting sense of disappointment that he wasn’t getting to enjoy it.
Still, he had to take pleasure in the fact that they were close to achieving something very important. Wincandon was an ordinary estate in North Magnia but, in Edgar’s view, it was the setting for something extraordinary. No one he had talked to could recall a treaty with signatories from so many nat
ions. As well as South and North Magnia, led by himself and Cerdda, there was Frayne, a chieftain from the Midder Steppe, who had offered to recruit soldiers so long as someone else would pay their wages; Russell, representing Duke Bastien of Morbaine, who could not formally commit soldiers without the authority of King Nicolas of Guivergne, but was negotiating on other sources of aid; Lord Emmett, representing Duke Coen of Thesse, who, with the backing of Emperor Baldwin, was requesting aid against the traitor, Emeric of Barissia; and finally, Lord Rosmont, who had authority to commit Cordence to the war. They were close to signing a full treaty and declaration of war, on both Ishari and Barissia—and, crucially, to committing to another army, even larger than the one they had sent to Brasingia.
Edgar wandered away from the hall towards the southern end of the village. He stopped at the mill pond, a pleasant spot dominated by a large willow tree. Some of the yellow catkins had fallen onto the surface, and were twirling around in the breeze. Beneath the surface, sinewy eels patrolled their underwater kingdom, wriggling into view and away again.
‘Penny for your thoughts?’ said a female voice.
Edgar turned around sharply. He had assumed that he was alone and his heart beat fast as he peered at the shaded end of the pond. Emerging from under the willow tree, Elfled, Cerdda’s sister, walked towards him. He met her half way, keen to take the chance to spend some time with her alone.
‘Well?’ she asked him.
‘It was getting a bit boring in there,’ replied Edgar.
‘Going that well, then?’
The Weapon Takers Saga Box Set Page 43