Druid's Bane

by Phillip Henderson

  Kane brightened. “So I win, do I? Is that what you are saying?” He came forward, an eagerness about him. “Do I kill her?”

  “That I don’t know. All I saw was your sword with her blood on it. How it gets there was not in the bones.”

  “Are you sure of this?” he asked, suddenly animated. Even the colour was returning to his face.

  “I am,” Fren said firmly as she carefully poured the mixture she had been making into a small vial. “Now, I understand there is a banquet at the palace tonight?”

  “Yes. A homecoming welcome for Eden and his men, I believe. Why?”

  Fren pressed a small cork into the vial and handed it to him. “Give this to Orson and tell him it must be put in the lady’s cup tonight. Also tell him that he is to proceed with the other matter he and I have discussed.”

  “What other matter, and what is this?” Kane asked, holding up the vial.

  “That, my dear boy, is a gift. It’ll ensure that your lovely sister sees little rest this night and has an entirely new understanding of fear when the sun rises tomorrow. She will be exhausted and afraid by the time she steps into the ring, which I’m sure will help you. And the other matter will help you even more, I think. You may even find that you win the contest by default.”

  “How?”

  “The details are best left unsaid. Now, off you go. You need rest.” She plucked a small vial from a shelf and handed it to him, adding, “And this will help give you a good nights sleep.”

  ***

  Fren watched from the doorway as Kane rode away into the woods. As soon as he had gone from view, the crows Fren knew were perched in the trees above her cottage took to the air and descended on the clearing. There were six, and each vanished in a green flash of light before materialising into her colleagues of the Larniusian Druid Council.

  “Are you sure he’s ready?” Lord Cameron asked, adjusting his hat.

  Fren smiled. “In three months, my friends, it shall be as Maig predicted. The prophecy of the fall shall come to pass just as it was promised to Brutarius on the night of his end. That young prince shall be Arkaelyon’s new high king, and the Book of Minion and the Fountain of Rebirth shall be in our hands once again. His dear sister will be dead and buried before she can become aware of the power she has to turn the fates against us.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Danielle sat in silent meditation beside her mother’s well-kept tomb, her long legs crossed, back straight and eyes closed. Her body ached after a week of hard fought bouts, but with the final of the tourney scheduled for noon tomorrow and Illandia a fever of speculation over which of the king’s twins would emerge victorious, she’d been determined to find some peace and quiet today. She also wanted to be near her mother—to share her fears and concerns, for even with her successes across the week, they were still there churning in the pit of her stomach—and that had meant one of her clandestine rides up into the foothills of the eastern mountain and a visit to the realm’s royal cemetery. After several hours pouring out her heart to her mother, she had felt composed enough to set her mind back on tomorrow, and more specifically how to win.

  She had lost all track of time—going over the plans and strategies Faith and her had devised to beat Kane—when the soft tread of leather sandals on grass interrupted her meditation. She didn’t look up, knowing it was one of the stewards coming down from the royal abbey at the far end of the large cemetery. She glowered as his shadow fell over her. The message the man no doubt had for her, or more specifically, the rebuke it almost certainly contained, annoyed her no end.

  The steward cleared his throat. “Milady, please forgive the interruption, but I have a message for you.”

  It was Thomas Dultese. The head steward of the abbey and a trusted friend.

  “I assume it is from my father,” Danielle said, her eyes still closed. She had heard a crow fly over the cemetery a short while ago and guessed it carried a message from the palace for it made that squawk all message birds did when they got close to their destination.

  “It’s from the king, yes,” the aged steward replied.

  “Let me guess: he is sorely annoyed that I rode up here alone, and he wants me to return to the palace at once?”

  “You have the gist of it, Milady, though His Majesty did add something about his daughter being seen in public wearing trousers and a sword again without court permission, and that several complaints had come from various nobles.”

  Danielle gave an irritated sigh and stood up. “Yes, I forget. I can wear both when I am in the tourney ring or riding to Amthenium as Arkaelyon’s ambassador, and on similar official occasions, but I am not permitted to wear them otherwise. What it is to be a woman, Thomas. You should be pleased that you are not. Gods, it’s so petty.” Danielle secured her hair back into a ponytail, adding, “And that my father would bow to such nonsense angers me all the more. He knows better. The fact that I am a woman should make no difference.”

  “That is perhaps not entirely fair, Milady.”

  Danielle flashed the aged steward an unappreciative look as she bent and brushed her trousers off. “Don’t side with them, Thomas. I’m not in the mood.”

  “Milady, you have always insisted that I speak honestly with you, and so honest I shall be.”

  Danielle snatched up her sword belt from where it lay on the grass, not sure that she wanted to hear honesty right now. She really didn’t need this distraction.

  “You are correct to think the nobles petty and prejudiced for complaining about your, as they are wont to put it, ‘unladylike conduct.’”

  “Of course I am because that is all they are… ”

  “But you wrong your good father by lumping him among them. You may never wear the crown, but as your father’s protégé and, indeed, the hope of the reformist cause, the future of this realm will be in your hands someday; and thus, your good father’s concern for both your safety and your public image should be understandable.”

  “Yes, well, if that were so, then why does he not treat Eden, our future king, with the same concerns?” She buckled up her sword belt.

  “Perhaps because he doesn’t have to,” Thomas said calmly. “The crown prince would not have ridden up here without an entourage of liegemen or, at the very least, several stalwart friends. And he certainly would not have come here alone, as you have done five times in the past two months and many times before, despite having promised your father otherwise—and he would not have sworn my colleagues and me to secrecy, to boot. You know how dangerous these woods can be.”

  Danielle felt her indignation ebb a little with Thomas’ quiet rebuke. As hard as his words were, they were also true. She did have a tendency to be wilful, even pigheaded when her temper was up, and recently her anger had been raised more than was usual. Father deserved better. After all, if it weren’t for him, she would never have been admitted to Arkaelyon’s councils, let alone selected as the realm’s ambassador to the Grand Assembly in Amthenium or allowed to compete in the tourney—a decision she knew he had made despite his reservations.

  “I guess you’re right, Thomas. I’m sorry. I’m a little on edge with the tourney and all. I just had to be away from the palace, and you know how much I love to ride, how much I love to be here close to my mother. I suppose I’d best be getting back.”

  “Very good, Milady, and understandable. Just make sure next time, you ride in company and seek your father’s leave to come here.”

  “I will.”

  “All of us here at the sanctuary wish you the best of luck tomorrow—not that you’ll need much of it from what we hear up this way. You have proved quite the champion.”

  “Not a champion yet. But yes, I’m pleased with how the tourney has gone. But tomorrow is really all that matters, isn’t it.”

  Thomas put a hand on her shoulder. “You’ll manage it. I know you will.”

  “Thank you.”

  He nodded. “I’ll have Sade and Peter saddle two mounts and accompany you
back to Illandia, which will help to mollify your father, I think.”

  “Of course. I’ll wait down by the arch.”

  The aged steward spoke the benediction of light and protection upon her, wished her well on the morrow again and then excused himself and headed back toward the funeral chapel. Danielle watched him go, thinking on his words and her conduct of late and of course about tomorrow. She wished she had the sort of faith Thomas exhibited. There had been on doubt in his eyes as he’d predicted her victory tomorrow.

  She turned to face her mother’s tomb, kissed the palm of her hand and laid it on the smooth sun warmed stone. With her eyes closed, she asked her mother for protection on the morrow and promised to return in a day or two with word of her victory. If I manage it.

  With her good-byes said, she headed off through the royal cemetery to the stone archway where her horse was tethered to the branch of an oak tree. Walking among the tombs and crypts on a clear spring day such as this it was difficult not to think of the generations of her kinfolk and Arkaelyon’s noble families who had been buried in this sacred ground on the western slopes of the Eastern Mountains. She knew the histories well enough, thanks to Joseph’s tutoring. Ariel the Steadfast, Arkaelyon’s thirty-third king since Kathius Arkaelyus united the tribes of the Telling region under his blue and white banner of Arkaelyon, was the first to be interned here. His burial had taken place more than eight hundred years ago, at the beginning of what would come to be known in the history annals as the Long Terror. Arkaelyon’s monarch, dispossessed of Amthenium after the siege that had claimed Ariel’s life and ended the Goddian-Druid wars, had been forced to bend the knee to Larnius, a rebel druid warrior and once druid apprentice to the Kathiusian Druid Council. The realm had just begun their long night of servitude to the worshipers of Maig, the deity Larnius served after his expulsion from the Kathiusian Council, and whom, myth as much as history said, had helped the young druid overthrow the might of Ariel’s armies with unspeakable magic. Many more men and women of Arkaelyon’s noble bloodline had been buried here during that long terrible age. They now lay on the left side of the path she was walking down. Danielle felt a chill touch her skin just thinking of how many had meet their end as a bloody sacrifice on the steps of one of the many temples the Larnian Druids had erected across the continent in worship of the goddess of death. Even now, that part of the cemetery was permeated by a deep sadness not felt elsewhere.

  On her right side lay those who had died since the fall of Larnius’ line two centuries ago and the end of the Long Terror it had brought. The number of tombs was not half so many, and most of those that lay there had died in their aged years, and peacefully. Danielle hoped, as she often did when walking through this hallowed place, that before she was made to rest here, another age would have begun in Arkaelyon; one where all folk, regardless of blood, walked equally among one another and knew no barriers to advancement. That in turn left her wondering as she often did about her role in realising such a future.

  On reaching the bottom of the cemetery she walked under the stone archway with its life-size statue of Kathius Arkaelyus. Her thoughts returned to the tournament final tomorrow as the distant walls, spires, towers and rooftops of Illandia came into view at the bottom of the forested mountains. She sighed and shielding her eyes with a gloved hand, glanced up at the sky, gauging the time by the slant of the sun. She guessed it to be about mid-afternoon, which meant if she rode hard she would be back at the palace in time to make amends with her father before having to dress for yet another tournament banquet. With her mood being what it was, she wasn’t sure she could stand yet another round of wine-drenched speeches, many given by tournament knights in praise of her “astonishing womanhood.” The lecherous undertones made her skin crawl.

  It also made her think of her beloved James more than ever and wish for the umpteenth time that he were here with her. She had not seen him since her last visit to the Lunwraith court six weeks ago, and even then her schedule had only allowed them to share two wonderful nights and an afternoon together, all in secret of course. Even after almost two years she still couldn’t quite believe that she had a lover. He had saved her life during an assassination attempt on the Lunwraith king. They had been boarding the royal barge when eight assailants had opened fire on their entourage with bows. In the resulting turmoil, Danielle had ended up in the fast moving river, her gown threatening to drag her under. James had jumped in and dragged her ashore, before her knights were able to pull off their armour. The concern on his face and in his hazel eyes was burned indelibly into her memory. She smiled, remembering the look on that same ruggedly handsome face after she had kissed him out in the palace garden during the celebratory banquet that had been held that night. For the next three months they had written to each other in secret, finding they were so alike in so many important ways. Then they’d met again in Lunwraith in the summer. The sight of him had fanned the embers that were already burning in her heart, and while she had not planned it they had made wild passionate love in a wheat field after an exhilating ride one afternoon.

  Ever since James’ letters and too infrequent company had helped keep her sane. She only wished they didn’t have to keep it all a secret, but his occupation as a Lunwraithian diplomat and spy made it necessary—or so he said, and she knew he worried about her reputation if their affair was to become public.

  A bone-chilling shriek cut through the quiet afternoon air. It was so horrid and piercing that Danielle jumped with fright and turned to face the monastery buildings at the far end of the cemetery, for certainly it had come from there, and to her ears at least the cry seemed to have contained her name. In the distance one of the stewards was stumbling out through the chapel’s back doorway. Danielle watched as the man staggered toward the cemetery. She frowned because he looked drunk, but then, to her horror, he slumped forward and crashed down the steps to the grass below.

  Realising something was gravely wrong; she ran to her horse and in no time was galloping up through the cemetery toward the chapel. She was only halfway there when she heard sounds of combat coming from inside the stone building: shouts of anger and pain punctuated by the twang of bowstrings and the chink of crossbows loosing their bolts. She could not think what was going on. A little closer, and she came upon the steward lying facedown on the grass with an arrow protruding from his back. Who would be insane enough to attack the royal cemetery?

  She drew her sword as she dismounted, and then raced up the steps for the open doorway. Her father would most certainly disapprove of her hasty actions, but these were men who served the house of de Brie! They were also personal friends she wasn’t going to turn her back on them as long as she had a sword in hand. Not that such rationalisations slowed the blood thumping through her heart.

  On reaching the top stair Thomas staggered out through the doorway clutching his bloodied left shoulder and into her path. When his eyes found hers, he seemed horrified to see her here. “Run, Danielle!” he hissed.

  But before she could say anything, he jerked violently as the iron tip of an arrow burst through the front of his robe. His eyes went wide and he fell forward into her arms. Enraged by the brutal murders she had just witnessed, Danielle lay him down and rushed for the doorway. This was folly, utter folly, but a compulsion to help those she loved drove her on.

  She crossed the threshold into the Chapel’s main sanctuary and threw herself back up against a pillar.

  She heaved several deep breaths as her eyes took a moment to adjust to the gloom inside and then stole a glance around the edge of the pillar. What she saw made no sense. Glalum, Tarris, and Sade, three of the apprentice-stewards who saw to the upkeep and protection of the royal cemetery, had taken up positions on the royal balcony overlooking the altar. They were desperately loading and loosing crossbow bolts into a host of black-robed men rushing in through the chapel’s main entrance. Percy, more comfortable with the longbow, stood in the doorway to the rectory that was behind the altar, his every a
rrow finding flesh. Father Bluton was shouting instructions to a group of stewards entering the chapel from a doorway behind Percy.

  The slaughter was horrible but the attackers kept coming in greater numbers, hunkering behind stone pillars and pews and were beginning to shoot back with growing intensity.

  There was no hint from the black attire of who the aggressors could be. The vast wilds of the eastern mountains that stood on Arkaelyon’s border with Vafusolum were rife with highway robbers and bandits—but few had the suicidal commitment these men were exhibiting or wore such clothing.

  As yet unseen, she pressed her back up against the cold stone pillar again, wondering what to do. Even with the reinforcements that Father Bluton was directing to the defence of the chapel, it was clear they could not hold out for long, not against such a determined attack. But her sword was useless here. If she stepped out into plain view she would be shot before she made a few yards.

  Unless? Yes, if she could draw the robed attackers away, the stewards would have time to escape—and no one would catch her once she was on her horse. She braced herself, offering a quick prayer to the Mother and Father Creators for protection and courage. She glanced around the pillar again and bellowed a flurry of taunts at the attackers, naming herself, cursing their beastly actions and daring them to face her.

  Her voice cut across the fighting, drawing the attention of every combatant in the chapel. The surprise that Arkaelyon’s only princess was here lasted for but a moment before one of the robed attackers aimed a crossbow in her direction and released a bolt that whipped past her head and chipped the plaster work in the wall behind her. Another issued a frantic order to seize her. It was instantly clear they thought her a much better prize than the stewards, and like a pack of wolves wild with the sent of blood, they turned and rushed her.