My eyes felt heavy and tight and I had to force them open. I found myself looking into Dthor-Aid’n’s face. He jumped up. “Majesty, he is awake.”
I struggled to push myself upright. “No you don’t, young man,” Janir said, hurrying to my side and placing a restraining hand on me. “Your healer has said that you must rest.”
“I feel perfectly well rested, King Janir.” I responded swinging my legs off the bed. Dthor-Aid’n gave me his hand assisting me to stand as I wobbled upright. “Besides, we still have to get to Polis.”
“Eager to excise more of the black canker are you, lord wizard?”
I turned at the sound of Keelan’s voice.
“I am keen to complete my mission to Polis, your highness,” I answered, “I am not and neither have I ever been overly keen to shed blood.”
Keelan picked up the sash Ursus had made me examining it closely. “A strange sentiment from a man who wears trophies such as these,” he observed with a wry smile. “My son tells me that you were a frighteningly ferocious warrior in this conflict, Ez’n. He says you fight like a dragon with two heads.”
“I was angered by their savagery.” I responded.
“That is rather an understatement, Ez’n!” The king gave me a vaguely surprised look. “You kill a full-fledged commander in single combat, throw his subaltern from the battlements and hurl a wizard some fifty cubits into his own ranks. I would hazard that you were quite a distance past angry.”
“I did not lay a hand on the wizard Gorgoth,” I answered.
“Yes,” the king agreed, “I have heard any number of reports concerning that victory.”
I gave the king a dark look. As far as I was concerned the Black Army had mainly defeated itself, the courage and prowess of the Deloi and my troop notwithstanding. They had placed all of their faith in a man who had chosen to abuse his rather limited arcane skills and had been panic-stricken once he had been felled. That being the case, I cautioned the monarchs against allowing their men to place credence in stories based on nothing more than what amounted to my creeping up behind an over-confident magic user and pushing him off the battlements.
“And the soldiers?” Janir asked sceptically.
“The commander underestimated my skill with the blade so I killed him. Kylos got the other with his bow. He fell.”
“It seems strange, if what you say is true, that my youngest son should send you these.” Keelan said holding out Gorgoth’s crest and that of the subaltern. “Morlans do not give away proof of a kill.”
“Perhaps they are a mark of his esteem and respect.” I suggested reaching for my dressing robe. “Would you excuse me, majesties? I would like to get dressed.”
Janir looked at Keelan and shrugged. It was obvious that neither of the kings believed my version of the events but I was certain that they would follow my counsel and discourage any stories of my invincibility in battle. Such delusions when held as truths were dangerous things and I had no wish to see the Zetan and Morlan coalition defeated simply because one man—namely me—fell in battle.
A sudden awful thought struck me. We were still in Delos and the Kings were here. “Dthor-Aid’n, how long have I been—resting?”
Dthor-Aid’n told me that I had been unconscious for the best part of five days. They had despatched Thaze to inform King Janir when I did not waken by the end of the first day as Karyn had predicted. The woman had closed the wound on my shoulder using the last of the powder we had captured, leaving just enough for her to analyse to see if she could duplicate it. So far she had had little success. She could staunch the wounds and stop them from oozing slime but she could not get them to close. Only the strange glistening powder could do it—and we had no more left with little prospect of obtaining more unless we managed to win another encounter with the invaders.
Dthor-Aid’n brought me up to date with matters as I dressed. I looked around. “Where is my cloak?”
The soldier looked a little uneasy. “Ah! Yes.” He said cagily, “Your cloak.”
I raised an eyebrow giving him a challenging look. “Yes, Dthor-Aid’n. My cloak. Where is it?”
“The—eh—men have it.”
It seemed that the men of the White Guard had taken my cloak, divided it amongst them and stitched it into their own cloaks apparently after discussing whether or not my blood might imbue the garment with talismanic properties that would enhance their fighting skills or protect them from injury in the coming battles. I gave Dthor-Aid’n a pained looked. He smiled and shrugged. Soldiers were soldiers, and Morlans were superstitious. I sighed. Well, I supposed it could do no harm but I was slightly vexed at the loss of my dark purple winter cloak.
“Well, lad” Dthor-Aid’n said, reaching into a nearby closet, “Things are not all bad. The men asked me to present this with their compliments.”
I eyed the package he was holding suspiciously. “What is it?”
“The men had a local tailor make you a new cloak.”
I could see that Dthor-Aid’n was gauging my reactions very carefully, almost as if he was calculating his chances of escape before I turned him to stone or did something far worse. A sudden dread gripped me. “If that garment is decorated with stars and moons I will kill every last one of you.”
Dthor-Aid’n held out the parcel. “A symbol of our esteem, lord commander.” He said and dropped to one knee.
Not stars and moons then, I thought somewhat cynically, feeling ashamed of myself as soon as I had removed the white silken wrapping and shaken the cloak open.
The men had employed a Delon tailor of exceptional skill who had created the cloak half in Morlan crimson and half in the indigo wool of Zetaria’s royal house weaving the fabrics together in such a way that though the scarlet ran diagonally from one selvage around the back of the cloak and up almost to the neck at the front there was no hint of a seam; and even where the material joined a cleverly matched leather yoke that it was almost impossible to detect where fabric ended and leather began. The garment was fastened at the throat by a pair of dragons, one of gold and one of silver that fixed by entwining their necks. The men had my own crest fitted to the left shoulder and several of the black soldiers’ badges attached around the collar.
“If my lord will permit?” Dthor-Aid’n took the cloak from me and held it up. I turned allowing him to drop it over my shoulders. He reached around me and fastened the dragon clasp with practiced ease. “You guard awaits you,” he said smiling down at me as I turned to face him.
The day was bitterly cold yet when I arrived in the square every man of my guard stood uncloaked. The Morlans in their sparse battle wear looked as if they should have been turned to ice already, yet they stood tall and proud with not a hint of discomfort showing on their faces. Even the Zetans stood resolutely to attention in just their thick-weave woollen tunics taking their lead from the iron resolve of their Morlan contemporaries, their capes folded neatly at their feet. As I appeared from the governor’s house the men genuflected, their heads bowed low. Across the way the two kings stood with their own guard watching in grim approbation.
“Am I truly worthy of this tribute, Captain?”
Dthor-Aid’n moved quickly to join them. Dthor-Aid’n looked up at me “We believe so,—and in truth that is all that matters.” He bowed his head and knelt once more at my feet. “Your men salute you, my lord and beloved commander.”
At my command the men rose taking up their cloaks and it was then the significance of their gift to me became completely apparent.
In the time I had been indisposed the men had banded together slitting their own cloaks in half and stitching them together half red and half indigo using the strips of my old cloak to fashion the fixing cords. Only Dthor-Aid’n still wore Zetan colours. He sketched an apology with his hands. “I have no-one to pair with, my lord. I hope this does not offend you.”
I took Anubis’ crest from my robe and reaching up pinned it to the captain’s cloak. “If I should fall in battle . . .” I s
tarted but Dthor-Aid’n put his finger to my lips.
“You will not fall, Ez’n, I will be there to catch you. I will always be there to catch you.” Dthor-Aid’n vowed, and he smiled. “You will not fall,” he said again, “I will be your shield.” He gestured to the men. “We will be your shield.”
†
CHAPTER 20
ADVANCES
KARYN PEERED at me from behind the retort she was examining. The thick bright green liquid bubbled and popped like boiling mud giving off staggeringly malodorous vapours. She had been working solidly over the days of my “rest” in the apothecary’s laboratory, and although she had managed to analyse most of the compound, one part still eluded her—the reagent that caused the wounds to close so rapidly.
“I am not a magician, T’pahq,” she said clearly vexed at her lack of magical skill. “If I was I might have discerned the final component. It is so frustrating. What I have so far will staunch and clean the injuries but they will not heal. The wounds are hybrid,” she explained, “part magical and part physical.”
I nodded. I could understand her frustration. I reached into the satchel I was carrying and handed her a leather pouch. “Try adding some of this to your poultice,” I suggested. “You may find it helps.”
She peered into the pouch and gave me a puzzled look. “Gold dust?”
I nodded. Everything I knew about the magical weaponry that inflicted the hideous wounds we had witnessed pointed to the fact that they were powerless against gold. It was why the Black Commander had not cleaved me in half; his blade had shattered when it came into sudden contact with my crest. The gates of the very Keep in which we were now billeted had withstood blow after blow from the crystal swords and lances—again thanks to the gold leaf that decorated them, or so I believed.
The healer spooned out a portion of her paste and dropped in a small handful of gold dust. A bright column of intensely cold blue fire erupted from the mortar bowl filling the room with foul black tarry smoke. As one Karyn and I rushed to the windows throwing open the shutters to allow the fumes to escape.
“I am no alchemist, Ez’n,” she said coughing as the last of the smoke blew clear, “but correct me if I am wrong—gold is supposed to be a neutral element is it not?”
I nodded. Under normal circumstances gold was indeed every bit as neutral as she supposed. Clearly these were not normal circumstances but magical ones. Wiping the black smudges from our faces we returned to the pestle and mortar and peered in.
Karyn’s paste had solidified into a solid lump like coal. She looked at me excitedly. “Are you thinking what I am thinking Ez’n?”
“I am thinking that this could be crushed into a powder.” I answered.
“Then you are.” She pressed the mineral gingerly with the pestle as if she half expected the substance to explode. It crumbled into powder even though she scarcely touched it. We both peered again into the grinding bowl. “What do you think?”
“Well, it looks the same,” I stated, “And it certainly smells the same.”
Karyn shrugged. “Well, as my old grandmother used to say ‘if it looks like fish and smells like fish and swims like a fish—it is probably a fish, but that doesn’t mean you can eat it.” She gave me a vaguely amused looked, “Grandmother was a fisherwoman.” She explained.
“I see,” I answered, “and was the good lady rowing with both oars in the water?”
“Probably not,” Karyn answered. “and I am not convinced that we are either; but there is only one way we will know if this is going to work.”
The makeshift infirmary the Deloi had set up just outside the Keep was filled to bursting with the injured and dying victims of the black soldiers. Karyn faltered as we approached a young girl in the first bed. She was about twelve cycles and had sustained a serious gash to her leg. It was a foul wound, the physician told us, extending from her thigh to her knee and exposing her kneecap.
“We have something that may help,” I told the child’s parents as I crouched beside them.
“Anything. Anything.” The girl’s father said. His wife looked at me and nodded.
“It may not work and it could make things worse,” I told the couple, “the truth is we do not know what it will do until we try it.”
The girl’s mother took hold of my hands only to be reproached by her husband for the familiarity. “You are the saviour of Delos, Lord Ez’n. We will trust that you would not cause more harm than good. And if your medicine will lead to an end to our little Daria’s suffering it will be no bad thing.”
I signalled to Karyn who crouched beside the girl and gently lifted the dressings from her injured leg. Washing and drying the wound carefully with fresh clean water to remove the excess slime she took a handful of the powder and sprinkled it into the gash.
Almost at once there was a flash of bright cold fire. The girl let out a fearsome scream and fainted. Karyn looked at me. I simply nodded, signalling her to brush away the black crusty scab that had formed over the cut. Beneath the scab was bright red, healthy looking flesh that began knitting together almost as soon as the last of the scabbing had been removed. Within moments all that remained was a pale golden line that glittered in the light.
The news of the cure spread like wildfire through the sanatorium and we were instantly besieged by anxious relatives and injured citizens begging for treatment. We handed what compound we had to the leading physician with instructions on how to use it before heading back to the laboratory in the Keep to manufacture more of the powder with the promise that we would return to help treat the injured.
We worked for most of the day, pausing only for light refreshment once or twice. Most of those treated recovered quickly but some, those too badly injured or too elderly and frail died from shock as the reaction occurred. Sad though it was, both Karyn and I felt it was a merciful release for those whose cause was lost.
The sun was setting when we finally returned to the Keep to seek out our companions whom the Deloi had named Ul Kyr-Garrin—the wizard’s army, and as I settled among my friends and lifted a jar of pale Delon porter to my lips I found myself confronted by Jae’nt and Markos.
The pair stood before me like a pair of badly behaved school boys waiting to be rebuked by their tutor. The pair moved forward jostling each other as they vied to be first to present me with the packages they were holding. In the interests of diplomacy and self-preservation I accepted both simultaneously.
“We would like to you have these as a token of our esteem, Ez’n.”
I gave the young men a cynical look. “I very much doubt that!” I answered, “I believe that you are currying favour.” I added as I opened the gifts.
“Well, yes, of course,” Jae’nt answered. “The sword belt is from me, the battle glove is from Markos.”
As I pulled the items from their containers, it became apparent what the princes had been working on during our journey north. Jae’nt had treated the kingsnake skin and fashioned it into a sturdy sword belt while Markos had constructed a single gauntlet from the snake’s hood. He had set the snake’s fangs on the back of the glove in such a way that they would inflict a very nasty injury should I be fortunate enough to land a solid punch on an enemy. His genius for weaponry did not end there. He had also used the serpent’s poison sacs so that the fangs would deliver a deadly dose of venom when the blow was struck and he took great delight in telling me that the sacs could be refilled with whatever poison I chose going so far as to suggest I get something from Orrin to recharge them once they were spent.
“We need you to settle a matter of the heart.” Markos told me, fidgeting slightly.
“I see,” I said stonily.
Dthor-Aid’n made a sound that could have been a laugh but might just as easily been a cough. “I am certain that you do not,” he muttered.
“Am I right in thinking that my choice will determine the victor?” I asked
“Most certainly,” Jae’nt said.
“It is essential,” Mark
os agreed.
“In that case I suppose you should tell me who the unfortunate object of your affections is so that I can apologise to her on our return to Kalina.”
“Her?” the princes said together.
I stared at the Princes in disbelief. “You are in dispute over a boy?” I must have sounded every bit as astounded as I felt. “Jae’nt? Markos?” The Morlan looked down at his feet, Jae’nt stared up at the ceiling.
I groaned. This was not at all what I was either expecting or wanting to hear. “So who is this unfortunate wretch?”
A sudden silence fell on the Guard. Maegor climbed to his feet and hurried away saying he needed to refill his pitcher of ale. Aenar and Kylos suddenly became engrossed in watching a game of Choctaw at an adjacent table and Dthor-Aid’n put his hands over his eyes in what was clearly a gesture of despair. I stared up at the Princes expectantly. “Well?’’ I said at length when neither of them spoke.
The pair shuffled uncomfortably and looked directly at me. I turned to Dthor-Aid’n who simply raised an eyebrow at me instantly converting my mounting and extremely uncomfortable suspicion to certain knowledge. My mouth dropped open. “And the wine has finally filled the goblet,” the captain said glibly.
I rounded on the youths climbing to my feet with such speed that the pair were startled into stepping back. “Me? Me! You cannot be serious!”
“Oh yes they can,” Dthor-Aid’n said and turned away making as if he was watching a dice game nearby.
“You cannot be serious,” I said again.
“Why not?” the pair demanded in unison.
“Why not?” I echoed. “You,” I stabbed my finger at Jae’nt like a dagger, “are the Prince Royal of Zetaria. Forming a liaison with your father’s viceroy is not only politically unthinkable, potentially disastrous and ethically reprehensible it is also probably treasonable. And above all, it is almost certainly insane! And you, Prince Markos,” I said stepping close to the young man, “are the son of my king’s ally. You are a Morlan for pity’s sake. How do you suppose your king would react were he to discover that, should I consent to your suit, the heir to his throne has taken a man to his bed?”
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