by Liam Reese
Norvasil strode through the tents, watching as the women and young men packed and rolled their meager belongings into bags, preparing to leave. He had misgivings about their ability to work together as an army, especially as they seemed more intent on gossiping than actually getting any work done. Norvasil chuckled to himself.
Not all that different to other armies, then.
A boy of around six years old jumped from behind one of the tents, armed with a stick that he pointed straight at Norvasil.
“Stop!” he shouted in his shrill voice. “This is my mama’s tent!”
Norvasil grinned. Barely taller than his knee, the child showed absolutely no fear whatsoever in the face of his massive enemy. He reached for his sword, easily larger than the boy, and drew it slowly, watching the youth as his eyes went wide in shock.
“Is this a challenge, lad?” Norvasil asked as women started pouring from tents, pointing and laughing. “If so, I would know the name of the warrior who challenges the great Norvasil.”
The giant looked down at his tiny opponent, the stick drooping slowly to the floor as he stared at him. He was a handsome lad, Norvasil saw, with bright blue eyes and a round face. Light brown hair, cut short, framed his serious expression as he looked back at Norvasil.
“Daran!” a young woman squealed, emerging from one of the tents.
Norvasil saw where Daran got his good looks from. The mother shared the blue eyes and light hair her son had. Hers was longer, however, pulled back to reveal the slim, smooth lines of her neck.
“I am so sorry,” she said nervously to Norvasil. “I have spoken of this to him, but…” She spread her hands.
“I am glad you arrived,” Norvasil said sternly, sheathing his massive sword again. “I fear the lad was about to run me through.”
Norvasil crouched and beckoned to Daran, who trotted across to him without hesitation.
“You are a brave one,” he said as the mother approached. “You will be a strong warrior one day, but this is not a suitable weapon for a great warrior.” Norvasil tapped the stick Daran held. “If your mother agrees, I would offer you this.”
Norvasil reached for a dagger at his belt, a simple yet serviceable piece of around six inches. Daran’s eyes widened in awe as he looked at the dagger, and he turned to look at his mother.
“Can I have it?” he begged. “Can I, Mama, please?”
“Please, Mama,” Norvasil growled with a grin, bringing a collective chuckle from the audience that had gathered.
She looked around at the people watching then at Norvasil and her son, tilting her head so her hair fell to one side.
“It seems I have little choice,” she said with a slight smile.
Norvasil offered the dagger to Daran, hilt first, and the boy grabbed at it eagerly.
“Two conditions come with this blade,” he said. “First, you must promise not to attack any friendly souls who come near your home,” Norvasil muttered in his deep voice. “And second, you must bind the blade until such time as your mother thinks you are not likely to gut yourself with it.” Norvasil stared into the boy’s eyes seriously. “Do you swear on your honor to keep these promises?”
Daran nodded eagerly, so Norvasil released the blade, watching as Daran held the blade up before his eyes, pleasure gleaming from his expression. Wordlessly he turned and wandered off, a group of young boys gathering to point and touch the dagger as he went.
“Thank you. I think,” Daran’s mother said as Norvasil rose. “I am Loraise.”
“Norvasil,” he said, bowing.
“I know who you are,” Loraise said, laughing at his mockery. “Anyway, thank you again for that. Daran is...younger than his years. It takes a rare man to not immediately dismiss him.”
“Oh, I am a rare man,” Norvasil said, puffing his chest out. “Rare indeed. They write songs about me, you know?” he said in a speculative voice. “At least someone might if they had heard of me.”
Loraise chuckled, appraising the big man she had seen teaching his group to fight. Yoranna had sung his praises, marveling at how strong he was, how his muscles bulged. She had not mentioned his charisma and wry sense of humor. It had been too long since she had laughed, and the feeling lifted her spirits.
“Would you like to join me?” she asked nervously. “For some tea?”
“Yes. Yes, I would.” He grinned at her, offering his arm. “Lead on, my lady,” he said. “Step aside!” he called loudly. “A rare man walks among you! Step aside there!”
The few people there laughed, especially when Loraise reddened at the attention, but a little smile crossed her face.
20
“By all that is holy!” a guard said as he rubbed his hands for warmth. “The cold is enough to freeze off my vitals.”
Stationed at the top of twenty feet of stone wall with only a two-foot-wide walkway and chest-height parapet between him and his fellow guards, the icy wind had blown up from nowhere. Grey dawn light added a leaden gleam over every surface, the single exception being the brazier full of coals glowing under a makeshift roof at the intersection of two walls. The cold drilled through his light leather and plate armor, seeped through the woolen undershirt and into his very bones, making him ache deeply.
“Fell off years ago, I heard, lack of use!” one of the other men said, bringing raucous laughter from the guards.
“Wore it down is more like.” the first voice said.
A dull clink came to his ears and he turned, peering into the grey that surrounded them. “Did you hear that?” he asked.
“No,” a few of the others told him.
“You hearing ghosts again?” the second guard teased.
“The White Lady is real, I say!” the first guard hissed. “Seen her in the great hall with these two eyes I did.” He turned his eyes back to the gloom. “No, this was out there.” He nodded at the bleak emptiness.
“Nothing out there but a few trees, the odd bird and...” the second guard wiggled his fingers. “Spooky ghosts,” he added in a spectral moan.
The others laughed at their companion’s superstitions, always telling them stories concerning ghosts and spirits of some kind or another.
“If there is nothing out there, why are we up here?” The first guard asked, holding his hands out to the brazier. “Why is the town sealed up tighter than a nun’s undergarments every night?”
“Pah. The mayor is frightened of his own shadow!” The second guard spat disdainfully. “This is an easy job and guaranteed pay for doing very little. You would do well to remember that,” he added, leveling a finger at the other man’s chest.
A loud cracking sound issued from the grey, and they all turned to see what it was.
“Heard that then?” The first guard asked in a self-satisfied voice.
They all gasped when their eyes picked out the army that had appeared at the town’s gates. Silent and neatly arranged in columns, they stood there, menacing and threatening, their leader astride a massive, black stallion that pawed at the ground in anticipation.
“Nothing out there?” The first to speak asked in a shaky voice.
“Send word to the mayor!” he barked. “Sound the alarm!”
A horn shattered the silence, soon followed by another, then more. Soon, men were pouring from the barracks, some half-dressed and stumbling, tripping in their haste to get ready. They stared around in confusion, not knowing what was going on.
“What is your business here?” The guard bellowed down to the army below.
“Isn’t it obvious?” the leader called in a sarcastic voice. Nervous laughter rippled through the army at his back.
“Who are you?”
“I am Besmir Fringor, rightful heir to the throne of Gazluth and your king!” the figure shouted.
The army of women at his back cheered and screamed, bashing their swords against their shields.
Besmir waited for the baying women to quiet. Another figure appeared beside the first, older and rounder, showing the sign
s of easy living. Disheveled and flustered, he had obviously been woken and dragged out into the cold morning to address the invading army he had never really expected to have to deal with.
Besmir smiled from atop his horse as the newcomer conferred quickly with his guard before leaning over the wall.
“Excuse my ignorance,” he called in a strong voice. “But I was under the impression Tiernon is king.”
“The usurper that betrayed and murdered my parents?” Besmir thundered “His life is forfeit. He will see a traitor’s end.”
“Excuse my ignorance again, but what evidence do you have to support this claim?”
Besmir turned, looking at his small army. He had promised there would be no violence this day, promised the town would capitulate without bloodshed and seen the relief in their faces.
“Evidence!” he cried to them. “The man wants evidence!”
A ripple of murmurs echoed through the army as more people flooded to the walls to peer down at the invading force.
“What is your name?” Besmir called.
“Yoran,” the reply floated down.
“Yoran,” Besmir repeated. “Here is your evidence.”
Silence fell over the town and the army, all eyes fixed on Besmir in anticipation of what he might do. From somewhere inside the walls a lone dog howled, a lonely baying sound that spoke of loss and misery. Another hound wailed, joining its voice with the first. A third dog began to wail then, followed by even more. Within the space of two minutes Besmir had more than thirty dogs baying and howling.
Yoran looked back at his town in horror as rats began to boil from cellars and dark waterways, scratching and biting. People screamed as their animals started yelling and neighing, barking and yowling. Rats continued to appear from the earth, jumping from below roofs and running from drains. Minor chaos started in the little town as Besmir sent his mind dashing from one animal to the next, driving them into a frenzy. Men and women ran from the sea of rats, unwittingly allowing themselves to be herded up against the inside of the walls. A few individuals realized they had been cut off and immediately set about opening the gate in a panicked attempt to escape.
Besmir watched in satisfaction as the large gates opened, the sweat pouring from his brow. The expression on the first man was priceless. Utter shock and fear exploded across his face when he saw the army outside the walls. He turned to see the rats then turned again to look at the army, confused as to what to do.
Besmir steered the rats past the fleeing citizens and out into the wilderness beyond the town. He looked up at the astonished faces peering back at him.
“There is your proof,” he said before falling from his horse and crashing to the ground.
Sharova watched Thoran as she packed the few things she wanted to take. He had convinced her to leave the dress behind; wearing her foraging clothes would be much less conspicuous. Her face had fallen when he suggested it, but she had seen the logic and now he waited as she fretted about something minor and worthless. A smile spread across his face when she started to clean and clear the room, tidying the mess they had made but leaving anything that had already been in disarray.
“Thoran?” he said in a quiet voice.
She turned, blowing a strand of hair from her forehead, to look at him with a question in her eyes. Sharova looked meaningfully around the room then at the window to the palace beyond. Thoran followed his gaze, got his point, and looked away, embarrassed.
“It feels wrong somehow...leaving a mess,” she said.
“This whole palace is a mess, Thoran. Leaving this room in a shambles is nothing to worry about.”
Thoran looked around one last time at the suite she had shared with Sharova, coming to understand this was the end of something important. She grabbed her small sack of belongings and crossed to the door.
“Let us leave, Sharova,” she said.
Something inside him liked the way his name felt when she said it, but he pushed it aside.
She is half your age.
He watched as she pressed her ear against the door, listening for any sign of danger. Her delicate fingers wrapped round the handle and turned it gently. She slipped through and disappeared into the gloom beyond. Sharova followed, his legs aching and breath heaving.
Dust filled the air with every footstep as Thoran led him through the passages and corridors of the palace, making him want to sneeze. Cold fright grabbed him when he saw the state the building had been left in. Dusty and dirty, as no one had cleaned for months, things had started to fall into disrepair. Priceless tapestries and paintings hung askew, with some of them almost falling to the floor.
Thoran froze in front of him and he stopped, resting a hand on her shoulder. She turned to look at his hand briefly but said nothing. She held her finger to her lips and gestured to the room beyond. Sharova recognized it as one of the throne room antechambers and listened.
The faint sound of voices drifted to his ears and he concentrated to hear what they were saying.
“...plan must be carried out,” Tiernon was saying to someone else. “Before Besmir arrives with his army.”
Who is Besmir? And why does he have an army?
“Yes, T’noch, we will cut the life from him and bleed him on the table for your master.”
“That is the cold thing he talks to,” Thoran breathed over his hand, sending warmth up his arm. “None but the king can see it, but I know it is there I...felt it pass by.”
Sharova nodded but had no idea what she was referring to. He shook Thoran gently, nodding in the direction of the outside world. She led the way with him stumbling along as best as he could. Thoran looked back and hesitated, waiting for him to catch up and grabbed his hand, dragging his arm over her shoulders.
Making better time now she was assisting him, the pair skirted around the antechamber, giving the throne room a wide berth. Approaching the main entrance, they both sped up, desperate to escape the confines of the palace into the welcoming daylight.
“Sharova!” Tiernon shouted from behind them. “And the wench!”
The former fleet admiral gaped in horror at the thing that had once been human. His skin sagged, flowing from his bones as if it wanted to escape. The only thing holding it to him was his stained, ripped clothing. A few wisps of hair clung desperately to his scalp, jutting straight out like an explosion. To Sharova’s eyes, his former king looked on the verge of death, if not dead already, yet somehow he still lived. Utter madness leaped from his eyes, most of which were visible to Sharova, and the stench that drifted to his nose was pure putrefaction.
“Gods, man!” Sharova gasped in disgust. “What happened to you?”
“You ask no questions, traitor!” Tiernon squealed. “Why are you not dead?”
“How are you still alive?” Sharova wondered.
Tiernon started towards the pair, who backed up automatically, not wanting the rotting, dying thing any closer. Sharova felt the temperature drop, what little energy he had seeped from him, and his knees buckled.
“Sharova!” Thoran cried as he dragged her to the floor.
Tiernon stood over them as his six guards appeared behind him, brooding and evil. A horrible, triumphant smile crossed Tiernon’s face, revealing far too many teeth.
“You should have stayed in your prison, Sharova,” he said. “Now you will get to suffer. Suffer loss the likes of which you never believed possible. And you will watch as I devastate your little friend here,” Tiernon hissed nastily. “Bring them!” he ordered.
Sharova watched helplessly as two of the large guards grabbed Thoran and dragged her away. Her eyes begged him for aid, but he could barely breathe, let alone move, and all he could do was mouth two words: love you.
“Will you stop fussing!” Besmir growled as Arteera tucked the blankets more tightly around him.
He lay in a large, soft bed the Mayor of Hourtin had provided. After his demonstration with the rats and animals of the town, the mayor had decided his town would be better
off hosting the army rather than being hostile, and allowed them to camp outside the walls. Zaynorth, Herofic, Ranyor, Norvasil, and Keluse, along with Arteera and Besmir, had been offered quarters in the town and the gates had been wedged open.
Mayor Yoran had also sent a doctor to examine Besmir after his collapse. With a pinched nose and prominent cheekbones, he had looked a great deal like a cadaver and Besmir had taken an almost instant dislike to the man.
“The patient has overexerted himself,” the doctor had said, completely ignoring Besmir. “A classic case of exhaustion brought on by malnutrition,” his droning voice had buzzed on. “Some time resting and eating should see the patient well again.”
“I’m right here,” Besmir had said crossly. “I can hear everything you’re saying.”
With a small nod to Arteera the doctor had left.
“Of course, my King,” Arteera replied in her calmest, most maddening voice.
She withdrew a few feet to sit on a wooden padded chair and picked up a patch of cloth, a needle and some thread to begin embroidering something. Besmir sighed as he watched her.
“I’m fine,” he said. “I need to get back to the army and gathering support.”
“Of course, Majesty,” she said, eyes never leaving her sewing. “Shall I have your armor delivered?”
Besmir stared at her with rising anger. He hated being confined to this bed, especially when the people in his army were sleeping in cold tents. Arteera had gently but firmly denied his every request to leave and rejoin them. She had then disobeyed his orders and his temper had worn short, snapping at her in frustrated rage. Now she had changed her attitude and had adopted this new, infuriating acceptance. She would not use his name, preferring to use his title, agreed with everything he suggested but added sarcastic little jabs and criticisms to almost every sentence and refused to look at him.