Druid's Bane

by Phillip Henderson

  “What say you to that? Shall I?”

  Looking into his eyes, she knew that the smallest show of defiance would give him all the impetus he needed to kill her.

  “Answer me!”

  Danielle cried out as the point of the blade bit into her a little. She had felt cold steel go into her before and the thought of feeling it again terrified her.

  “Let me go. Please…” she whimpered.

  To her relief, Orson and the short woman with him were rushing forward to intervene. Even with their masks on, Danielle could see the alarm in their eyes. “Please help me,” she begged.

  “This is idiocy, Kane,” Orson said, laying a hand on his shoulder. At the same time the woman gently took Kane’s wrist and eased the dagger away from Danielle’s side. Then she stepped between them. “Patience, Milord, patience,” she urged.

  Danielle recognised the voice, but before she could put a name to it, Kane angrily shrugged off Orson’s hand and shoved the woman aside.

  Knowing she was about to die, Danielle screamed as Kane grabbed her hair and pressed the point of the blade against her throat.

  “Don’t be a fool, Milord!” the woman yelled, grabbing his wrist far more firmly this time. “If she is what we suspect, it must be done in a particular way.”

  “This could ruin everything, Milord,” Orson warned.

  The black hate in Kane’s eyes made it clear to Danielle that he was undecided and that her life truly hung in the balance. She closed her eyes, praying the gods would smile on her.

  There was a long pause; then suddenly Kane stepped away and sheathed the dagger.

  Danielle had hardly opened her eyes before he backhanded her across the face.

  Orson and the woman grabbed Kane and dragged him away from her.

  “You fool,” the woman said. “You bruise her face, and there’ll be questions to answer.”

  Kane struggled free of their hold and thrust a finger in Danielle’s direction. His eyes were mad with violence. “You’ve been warned. Cross me again and you die!”

  The woman pushed in front of him. “You’ve said your piece, Milord; now, go! I have business with the girl and need to be alone.”

  Still tied to the tree, Danielle watched as Kane shoved past Orson to retrieve his horse. She felt weak from the ordeal she had just suffered, and she dared not utter a word until he and Orson had mounted their horses and disappeared into the undergrowth. His threats were still ringing in her ears, and she knew he wasn’t bluffing. If she got in his way again or opposed him in any way, he’d find a way of killing her without indicting himself. She was sure of that.

  A masked face framed in long silver hair blocked her view. Danielle had the feeling of familiarity again as the woman pressed a damp cloth with an ill-smelling liquid against her burning cheek. She was absolutely convinced she knew this woman from somewhere.

  “It’ll help reduce the bruising and stop a world of trouble.”

  “I know you, don’t I?”

  Cold grey eyes flicked up and met Danielle’s. “It doesn’t matter if you do or not.”

  A fractured memory and a name flashed into Danielle’s mind. “Fren? You were Kane’s nursemaid and chief chambermaid. I don’t understand… You were always kind to me.”

  The old woman ignored her as she shoved the cloth into a pocket and began to undo the buttons on Danielle’s riding coat with long bony fingers.

  “What are you doing?”

  Danielle stiffened as the woman’s busy hands loosened her coat and began to tug at her shirt, pulling it from the belt around the top of her dress.

  “Hush and be still, I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Not convinced in the least and unable to use her arms, Danielle kicked out with her right foot. The toe of her riding boot caught the old woman’s shin and Fren stumbled backwards, cursing at the pain. She sat where she fell a moment, grimacing and rubbing her leg, then she drew a knife from her robes and got back up. Danielle swallowed hard; bound to a tree with her hands behind her back, she had no defence against a knife.

  “Please, I meant you no harm. Just tell me what you want with me.”

  “It’s better you don’t know.” The blade came up and was waved an inch in front of Danielle’s nose. “You give me trouble again, and I’ll bleed you. Now hold still.”

  Danielle braced herself for the worst as a hard tug pulled her shirttails free. Fren lifted the white material enough to expose Danielle’s flat stomach and bent to look at something.

  “What do you want,” Danielle asked.

  Without warning, Fren jerked back, and almost lost her footing. When her gaze met Danielle’s there was fear there.

  “What were you looking for? Danielle demanded. Then a superstitious tingling went through her and she realised what this was about. “You were looking for my birth mark weren’t you?”

  The knife came up, threatening. “I said shut your mouth.”

  A thought struck Danielle. “You know of my nightmare?”

  Fren said nothing, as she moved to cut Danielle loose. Then she collected her things and began to walk away quietly muttering to herself.

  “Please, Fren, tell me something. I know you know.”

  The old woman stopped and turned to face her.

  Danielle waited expectantly as she rubbed her wrists.

  “I have no idea what you are talking about. I was checking to see if his lordship had left you bruised in places a bath maid or the like might notice,” she replied, and turned again to go.

  Unwilling to accept that as an answer—for it was clearly a lie, Danielle took a few steps after the woman. “You know of my dream, and you know what the mark I bear symbolises, which means you are likely a druid. I can see it in your eyes. I can sense it.”

  Fren stopped and faced her again, pointing towards the track that led back to the highway. “Do not be too smart for your own good. Now be on your way.”

  When Danielle ignored the order and continued to follow, closing the distance between them, Fren’s eyes grew wide like a startled animal’s. She brought the knife up again.

  “Stay away from me, child.”

  “Why are you afraid of me? You’re a Druid aren’t you?”

  “You are a cursed thing to my kind!” Fren hissed. “Get back, away from me.”

  “You mean I am a Child of Light, this Druid’s Bane, spoken of in that prophecy I dreamed of. That’s what you are saying, isn’t it?”

  The old woman shut her mouth, refusing to answer and steadily backed away.

  “What did it all mean?” Danielle continued. “Is Kane the chosen Hand of Maig, a new Overlord? And the book he held, was it the Book of Minion? Damn you, speak!”

  The old woman was visibly trembling now.

  Determined to get some answers, Danielle took another step towards the knife.

  “Back, child, or I will cut you!”

  Danielle smiled ruefully. She knew she was quite safe. “Answer me, old woman, or I’ll take the knife off you and teach you not to play games with me. Now, explain what this is about.”

  “You’re mad, now get away from me,” Fren hissed.

  As the old crone turned to go, Danielle saw her chance and jumped at the woman’s back. But the moment she grabbed Fren’s frail shoulders, there came a hideous scream and a flash of green light followed by a warm burst of air, and the next thing Danielle knew, she was in the grass, clutching at nothing, the knife lying harmlessly beside her, and not another soul anywhere to be seen. Then a crow squawked from a branch above her, and she looked up just in time to see it flutter away through the woods.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sitting at his bureau in his plush chambers at the top of the white tower of the Illandian Abbey, the Archbishop watched young Lord Isaac Gilmore hold a vial of white powder up to the window and frown at its contents.

  “But will it work, Your Eminence? The waterways below Amthenium are considerable, after all.”

  The Archbishop chuc
kled as he got up and went over to a side table to pour them both a drink. He had always liked Roughan Gilmore’s second son, Isaac. The young man was trustworthy, diligent, loyal, and cautious—traits he had always held in high esteem. Isaac also possessed his father’s touch for delicate politics. And watching the young man over the past six months as he discreetly helped garner support among the nobility for the church’s plan to repatriate the Amthenium basin—including Arkaelyon’s dispossessed capital, the island city of holy Amthenium—had only added to his admiration. And the fact Isaac had arrived unannounced a short while ago to voice certain concerns that their loyal followers had regarding that very same venture did nothing to dim that admiration.

  “My alchemists assure me that a cupful of that powder tipped into each of the wells around the Amthenium Palace before breakfast will kill everyone who drinks: guards, delegates, officials—the lot. And as I have promised our brethren, Amthenium will fall without a single sword being drawn.”

  “And you’re sure the alchemists are right in their reckoning?”

  “Quite sure.” The Archbishop smiled wryly as he crossed the opulent chamber with two crystal glasses in hand. Usually this was the work of servants, but these meetings required absolute secrecy. “I had them perform a test on a small village in the Eastern Mountains. A horrid little hole full of vagrants, hunters and thieves mostly, and it proved quite successful: more potent than any plague in living memory. Not a soul survived more than a day.”

  Isaac placed the vial down on the bureau and accepted the glass of wine, his expression thoughtful. “The faithful will be pleased to hear it, Milord. Knowing how this is to be done will certainly ease a few nerves. There has been much speculation about how you intended to take Amthenium without raising a sword. But… what of the rest of the city? The citizenry?”

  The Archbishop gestured towards the balcony. “Shall we?”

  The balcony commanded an impressive view of Arkaelyon’s capital city and stepping out into the afternoon sunlight, they gazed across Illandia. Only the ramparts and towers of the Illandian palace, across the eastern promenade, stood taller. Everything else lay before them, a sea of orange-tiled roofs or darker slate and shingles, crisscrossed by a network of busy cobbled streets. The four wide, tree-lined promenades that ran from one of the city wall’s four main gates to the grand square, cut the city into equal quarters and were the largest and most crowded of Illandia’s thoroughfares, and even from this height one did not escape the hum of activity below.

  “It’s quite breathtaking to behold, Milord—this view, I mean,” Isaac said, awe evident in his face and tone. “One never tires of it.”

  The Archbishop masked his grin with a sip of wine. Yes, Illandia—at least in her present form—was a magnificent city, unparalleled in size and architectural beauty, and certainly a far cry from the squalid and rambling metropolis it was said to have been during the centuries of the Long Terror.

  But even now, dressed in all her stately grandeur, she could never be Amthenium.

  “True enough, Isaac. She is like a beautiful whore. And in that there’s pleasure to be had, certainly. But she can never replace the sanctity of marriage, my friend. Buildings, however magnificent in their design and construction, walls so thick, palaces and abbeys so proud and wondrous, cannot substitute sacred soil. And certainly not sacred soil kept so long from the church’s possession as Holy Amthenium has been.”

  “True enough, your Eminence. But there is still the matter of Amthenium’s citizenry and on that account—you were saying…?”

  “Hmmm, yes…” The Archbishop cleared his throat. “Apparently the effects lessen as the powder dissipates into the water system. I suspect there might be a few thousand deaths, perhaps a few more, and a great deal of sickness for a number of days thereafter. An unfortunate thing, of course, but it can’t be helped. Besides, it will ensure the citizenry don’t have the strength to resist, as our small army or mercenaries arrives and takes possession of the palace and city walls.”

  “Of course, Milord,” A distant look crossed Isaac’s face as he sipped at his wine. “It’s hard to believe that Amthenium will be back under the authority of the church before winter. It’s a credit to your patience and perseverance, Your Eminence, and certainly a sign of the gods’ favour.”

  “You are too kind, my young friend. I think the truth of the matter is, one cannot mock the Father and Mother Creators and not know their wrath eventually. And Paul de Brie has mocked them for far too long, just as the Vafusolum Empire and the dark Druids did before him. And we both know the terrible scourge that took them.”

  The Archbishop paused, his attention lingering on the ramparts and towers of the palace across the eastern promenade. It had been ten years since a much younger Paul de Brie stood before the General Council and convinced the nobility to vote an end to the holy crusades that had raged every summer since the end of the Long Terror. Their agreement had ended one hundred and eighty years of war against the Vafusolum Empire, and seen Amthenium become the property of all realms and the home to the newly established Grand Assembly of Realms. The events of that day in Arkaelyon’s General Council were seared into his memory like a shaming brand, never to be forgotten or forgiven. It had festered there all these years as he patiently waited to restore the will of the Gods and exact their revenge. Now the wheel had turned full circle, Amthenium was all but in their grasp, and justice to a wayward king would soon be delivered.

  Isaac sniffed. “Your Eminence, if I might be so bold, there is something else that has a number of your nobles concern, you understand, things you should be aware of, I think.”

  “Isaac, as I have said before, you have my ear, so speak as you will.”

  While he hid it from his face, the Archbishop seriously doubted that the young man had anything to say that he had not already heard via his lovely Bianca, who headed the church’s network of spies and assassins. However, with the plan to depose the high king and seize Amthenium progressing so well, he could afford to offer as much reassurance as possible and let some of the secrets he had been keeping particularly close to his chest be know.

  “Before I do, you should know, first and foremost, sir, that everyone who has put their seal to the re-establishment of Arkaelyon’s rule over the Amthenium region and the restoration of the church’s authority in holy Amthenium proper, remains committed.”

  The Archbishop knew this already, but humoured the young man with a gracious nod.

  “However, there is some concern that Lord Kane might not be the right man to replace his father.”

  The Archbishop smiled at that, not the least bit surprised to hear this either. He had his own doubts often enough.

  “He’s an atheist,” Isaac continued, his voice suddenly low, as if the word should not be spoken in this holy place, “and it seems odd that we should trust such a man. And further, this blind hatred he has of his sister—it makes many of the nobility very uneasy.”

  The Archbishop shrugged. “She’s a dangerous woman, Isaac.”

  “Yes, of course, Milord. And your noble supporters know all too well the danger she poses for Arkaelyon. Certainly they are concerned about the power she wields here and abroad in her father’s name, but Lord Kane goes too far and the lady is merely a product of her father’s corrupted blood and the ill-conceived fancies typical of her sex.” Isaac, hesitated, before saying, “I’m not sure that you are aware, but I was told yesterday that while he was brokering support for the slavery legislation, he openly spoke of having her murdered along with several of the nobility close to the king. If this had become known, it would have indicted the church by association. Milord, in truth, the man is far too brash and impulsive, and we wonder if it might be wiser to select one of our own to replace the king.”

  “Whom did you have in mind?” the Archbishop asked. He already knew the answer.

  “In all honesty, some think that the king’s second brother should be given the crown. Lord Dunston is a devote Ortho
dox Goddian and very generous to the church. He’s also willing to accept the role and able to fulfil its duties, and more importantly, is as committed to Amthenium’s restoration as Arkaelyon’s capital as yourself.”

  “Aye, he is all that, true enough,” the Archbishop said, tapping his glass with his forefinger, “and believe me, I gave Dunston serious consideration—even had this conversation with him on more than one occasion. But unfortunately, and Lord Dunston agrees, he doesn’t have young Lord Kane’s influence with—shall I say, the less fervent members of the nobility, and we need a king who is not only sympathetic to our desire to see Amthenium restored as Arkaelyon territory and who is influential amongst the men and women of our faith, but who is capable of drawing support from as many sectors of the nobility as possible. If we fail on the latter, our little plot will tear this realm apart and sink us all. Kane is strong enough—and, I daresay, brash enough—to ensure that that doesn’t happen. However, I know what is feared, and I assure you, Isaac, Lord Kane can be controlled. His hand will be so wet with his father’s blood that he’ll not dare turn on us. All the precautions are in place. Trust me, if there was another we could use, I would already have groomed him. I know what sort of devil we are dealing with, and I, too, feel the unease of working with one as unprincipled as he. However, the gods work in mysterious ways, and we had best not question them.”

  “Of course, Milord. Though I do think it is my duty to remind you that the majority of my peers have agreed to this course of action only because you have guaranteed the safety of the king’s other children. I mean, it is one thing to depose a blasphemous and sacrilegious king, but quite another to spill the blood of his children however corrupt they might have become by their father’s beliefs. And I suspect that is very much what Lord Kane will want to do as soon as he wears the crown. Protect his legacy. And his sister will be the first.”

  “I understand that, Isaac. And you have my word that none of the king’s children will be harmed. I will make Lord Kane aware that his kingship will depend on it.”