Mordraud, Book One

by Fabio Scalini

  “As you like, kid! I’ve given you a chance, but if you don’t want to take it...” Larois exclaimed, shrugging her shoulders. “Ah, I was almost forgetting. There’ll be more folk than usual this evening. The new recruits that Eldain’s allies are sending to defend the front were picked today.”

  Mordraud felt his stomach knot in despondency, but he said nothing. He didn’t want to give up, not against that old sly fox Larois.

  “Page... a companion to damsels... Damn her, I’m nearly eighteen!” he hissed between his teeth, without letting her hear, swiftly stalking off to the back of the inn. He needed to tire himself out, and he knew no better way than thumping the air with a heavy stick.

  “How are you, madam? How lovely you look today, madam!” he barked, shaking the club he’d patiently carved during the long nights when he couldn’t get to sleep. “Your husband is waiting for you to luncheon. One moment, I’ll help you lace up your CORSET!”

  Mordraud grabbed the stick with all his might and hurtled it at the stone well.

  ‘If only I didn’t look like a blasted child... It would all be different!’

  His weapon wasn’t broken, luckily. He returned to his furious training.

  ‘I’d be at the front now, and I might even have already come across Dunwich. I’d be able to take part in battles, kill the Empire’s soldiers... Damn Cambria...’ He thought dejectedly.

  Mordraud took the club in both hands and hit the hard arid ground, flailing up shards of frozen mud all around him.

  “How are you, madam? Oh, what did you say?... How witty of you, MADAM!”

  The afternoon flew by and it was soon time to go to work. Cursing in perfect rebel style, Mordraud tied up the white apron Larois had shortened to fit his height, and went into the kitchens, mumbling. Gwern was more than busy. He was rushing to and fro, hobbling under a pile of dishes and pans.

  “It’s a nightmare out there! Never seen so many people all together!”

  Mordraud put his head round the door. Gwern was right. A herd of thirsty beasts, and many of them were still standing. Almost all soldiers, but a group of rather important-looking officers were sitting at one table. Mordraud dashed to fill the jugs and trays, pushing into the bedlam with his head down.

  “A beer, boy!”

  “Hey, kid. When’s the stew ready?! We’re starving here!”

  “So, we were on the Rampart... a Lance was trying to leap over us on his horse, But I...”

  “You should have seen her: all excited, and squirming about like crazy! Oh, and the things she said... Uh, she cost a fair bit but what a whore...”

  Mordraud slipped in and out of tens of conversations, till the customers’ voices all became the same, and all just as tiresome. The officers alone behaved in a civilised manner. They were obviously the first he took the stew to – the best part, less watery and with the firmest chunks of meat. Mordraud, in his own way, wanted the tavern to make a good impression.

  “Thanks, boy, that was quick,” replied one of them, a middle-aged man who presented himself well. A thicket of well-groomed moustache endowed him with an important air. “Here, this is for you.”

  A tip. He seldom saw a piece of silver in his work. Mordraud bowed his head in recognition. The officer had a formidable appearance. He bore the marks of the weather on his face and neck. Not an ordinary officer, he mulled. Not one of those who wasted their time in tents with maps and flags. That man was first and foremost a soldier. Mordraud was willing to bet he wasn’t the type to retreat often when helming a charge against the enemy.

  Mordraud walked back towards the kitchen, toying with the coin and absorbed in his thoughts. Gwern arrived rather gruffly with another trayful, thrusting it at him in a hurry.

  “For the table of soldiers down there on the right. Watch out, sometimes those ones don’t pay. Hey?” Gwern took the silver coin Mordraud had in his palm, and turned it over in admiration. “Who gave you that?”

  “That officer down there. A good man, and distinguished too,” he pointed out over his shoulder. “It was a tip.”

  “Of course he’s distinguished! That’s Adraman, didn’t you know? Eldain’s friend, and one of his best captains. A woman at the market told me – he was there buying some fresh fruit.”

  “Captain...” repeated Mordraud, letting the title linger on his lips. “Has a nice ring to it.”

  “How come you don’t know who he is? Everybody knows him! He’s married to a gorgeous lady, called Deanna. They live in the biggest house in the fief, you can’t not have noticed it.”

  Mordraud didn’t take in his brother’s words straight away. Then all at once everything clicked.

  “The largest house, you said?”

  “Yes, huge, with lots of fine furniture!”

  “And his wife... Deanna... Is she very young?”

  “See, you do listen to gossip too! Yes, she’s much younger than him,” Gwern answered, smiling. He liked keeping hearsay alive. “Adraman has many admirers down at the market... You’ve no idea how many women...”

  Mordraud stopped listening to his brother. The girl Larois had been talking about was the wife of an army captain! A remarkable coincidence. Maybe he’d found a way to reach that yearned-for goal of his.

  “Well, well... the old woman’s a sly one. She was careful not to mention that. Just think what a chance I was passing up!”

  “What did you say?”

  “No, nothing Gwern...” blurted Mordraud. “Here, hold this a moment.”

  “But... but... I need to wait on the tables!” yelled Gwern, taking the heavy tray. Mordraud had already darted into the kitchen.

  “Larois...”

  “Yes, Mordraud?”

  The old cook was slicing a clump of celery stalks, and did not interrupt her chore to listen to him. She had her back to him, but Mordraud could feel she was smiling.

  “That job you were telling me about...”

  ***

  Larois went with Mordraud to Adraman’s house the following day, for dinner. Gwern and the innkeeper spent the whole morning hunting around for new clothes for him instead of the old rags he wore every day. Threadbare garments dug out of a trunk belonging to the son who’d died at war. Mordraud was shoved in front of the mirror to try on what they’d bought for him. A pair of soft boots, some dark wool trousers, two grey and brown shirts, and a black tunic. He’d never felt so awkward.

  “This stuff must have cost a fair bit. Maybe we should take it back...”

  “Why, Mordraud? It suits you. And you wouldn’t want to look bad in front of Deanna, would you?!” exclaimed Gwern perkily. “It didn’t cost a lot. Larois said that with all the work there’s been at the inn, she’d never have coped on her own, so she wanted to pay for it.”

  “She didn’t have to. I could have paid for this stuff myself...”

  “Stop calling it stuff! They’re well-made clothes, and they make you look stylish!” Larois tweaked his cheek and neatened his hair, tying it back in a short ponytail with a band.

  “If I’d sent you off to buy clothes, you’d have come back with dreadful rags. These things have to be left to the ladies... or to a brother with a bit of taste.”

  “The tunic really suits you – I chose that!” said Gwern, nodding towards the mirror. Mordraud wondered how long it had been since his brother’s last fit. He nearly couldn’t remember.

  “And now you’re ready to dine at Adraman’s house.”

  The cavalryman’s house stood in the shadow of the castle, in the fief’s only street still bearing signs of the splendour of the old Eld family. Broad windows, pediments carved with battle scenes and rural landscapes, wide staircases leading to bronze doors that a horse would have no difficulty in passing through... Mordraud couldn’t believe his eyes. Eld might now be at the end of its resources, and it might be little other than a remote fief compared to the capital, but for him those buildings were the symbol of patent power.

  The dining room was ready and set out with refined silv
erware. A manservant opened the door and took their capes, then accompanied them to the long table. The masters of the house had not come down yet.

  “Relax, my boy! Smile a little.”

  Mordraud looked at Larois reproachfully, but realised she was right. He was as stiff as a board, and looked around too anxiously, as if he expected to have to run away from one moment to the next. However excited he might be about meeting a real cavalryman, the prospect of the dinner and the good manners made him feel terribly ill at ease.

  ‘If only Gwern was here with us...’ he thought, chewing his lip. His brother was much better than he was at talking to people, at making them like him.

  ‘Maybe that’s why Larois didn’t want to bring him... They’d have chosen him,’ he mused.

  “Please make yourselves at home. The masters of the house will be with you soon,” said one of the attendants, showing them to their places. The white tablecloth embroidered in copper thread showed off four plates, but there was easily space for another twenty people. Mordraud felt lost in that white sea of cloth.

  “When will they be here, Larois?!”

  The landlady shot him a thundery glance. He had a lot to learn, maybe too much, she thought. The seconds seemed like hours. Every so often the waiter filled their small goblets with a light, slightly sparkling wine. Mordraud gulped it down almost without tasting it, while Larois sipped it daintily. “Slow down, boy, you’re still too young to drink... so quickly.”

  “Larois, I hardly recognise you! You really seem the respectable genteel lady, yet at the inn you’re sometimes worse than the customers...”

  “There was a time, when the war had just started...” she replied, smiling, “when my husband and I also held sumptuous dinners for Eld’s well-to-do families. This was before most of them fled, of course. We were rather good at it... Pity we never organised anything for Eldain. I still think about it, now and then.”

  “I reckon I’ll have to copy you a bit, if I don’t want to make myself look silly.”

  “Well, if it makes you feel any better, please do,” Larois replied, waving the glass in her hand slightly. The message was clear. Don’t drink like a wretch. Mordraud nodded, putting down his goblet in embarrassment.

  “Please excuse our being late – my wife wanted to make herself look lovely.”

  Adraman and Deanna finally appeared on the staircase leading to the villa’s upper floors. The officer wore a heavy linen shirt and a pair of excellently tailored grey trousers. His hair was cut short and his thick well-groomed moustache was black with a speckling of white. Everything about him exuded composure. His step, the rhythm of his voice, his gaze. But Mordraud had eyes only for Deanna.

  Larois had warned him. He shouldn’t stare at her too much – it would be very rude. How hard though to comply with such a simple order. She was gorgeous beyond all expectations. The long earth-colour dress revealed no skin, yet did not completely conceal a shapely body, enhanced by large pale eyes, soft lips drawn to perfection and a mane of wavy raven hair down to her shoulders.

  “Stop it, Mordraud.”

  Larois’s fierce hiss brought him back to reality. Mordraud lowered his gaze and politely greeted his hosts, springing up from the table. Deanna laughed, covering her mouth charmingly. Adraman came forward with his hand out, and Mordraud shook his hand with all his might.

  “You must be Mordraud. Pleasure to meet you,” exclaimed Adraman, surprised by his iron grip.

  “The pleasure’s mine, sir,” answered Mordraud, as he bowed his head. Adraman gave him a light pat on the shoulder and invited him to sit down. Deanna took her place opposite him, which caused a spasm in his stomach. The first in a long line.

  “It’s always lovely to see you, Larois. I hope everything’s going well at the tavern,” said Adraman while he signalled to the attendants to start with dinner.

  “You’re looking well, Adraman. Thank you for the invitation. Your house is still the most beautiful in the town.”

  “Your compliments have to go to my wife. She’s the artist. I haven’t got half of her good taste.”

  The first courses came to the table on large polished silver trays. Simple straightforward dishes that the cook had embellished without overdoing it. Salted and cured meats served on enticing toasted bread, with mature cheeses and pickled vegetables. Mordraud had been expecting lavishness, but Adraman was restrained in every aspect of his life, and clearly wasn’t an enthusiast of the elaborate cuisine typical to the most high-ranking families.

  “So, my child, Deanna has told me she’d like someone in the house, to keep her company and to see to minor everyday tasks...”

  “The idea was mine, Adraman,” interceded Larois before Mordraud could reply. “If you don’t mind, naturally.”

  “Of course not, even if I already employ the best staff a fiefdom could hope for in times of war.”

  Adraman spoke politely, without revealing a trace of emotion. Deanna nibbled at some toasted bread, wetting her lips with wine occasionally.

  “Mordraud, tell me a little about yourself. I’d like to get to know you better, before making a decision.”

  “You’re not the one to have to decide,” hissed Deanna. Mordraud went red for no reason, struck by the harshness of her voice.

  “Actually I am, darling. I don’t want to argue with you,” Adraman returned. “So, tell me, Mordraud. Where are you from? I’ve never seen you about the town.”

  “Well, sir, I’m not from Eld,” he began, trying to speak in a pleasant tone. He felt as if he’d swallowed a bucket. “I don’t come from another fiefdom. I lived in a remote house, north of here.”

  “And your parents?”

  “Adraman, that’s none of your business!” exclaimed Deanna, looking at him with rage.

  “I think it’s only right that Mordraud tell you something about his life,” spoke Larois, intervening in the captain’s defence. Deanna always seemed ready to criticise her husband’s every word, which embarrassed Mordraud terribly.

  “My father was a... soldier serving with one of the allied fiefdoms, but he died in battle a few years ago. My mother passed away through illness, and so my brother and I fled to Eld.”

  He couldn’t tell the truth. He was ready to invent any lie. Larois was staring at him with an impenetrable gaze, and Mordraud felt a cold shiver run down his spine. What had Gwern told her about their past, he wondered as panic gripped him.

  “A sad tale. I’m very sorry about your family,” answered Adraman in sorrow. “The war with Cambria has poisoned the land, unfortunately.”

  A vague sense of unease descended on the adorned table. Mordraud set to drinking from his goblet again, refilling it with alarming repetition. Larois didn’t hesitate in shooting him very eloquent glances, but he needed to loosen his tongue a bit, and he paid her little heed. Deanna broke the silence, speaking directly to him.

  “Can you read, Mordraud?”

  “Of course,” he responded.

  “And do you like reading?”

  The only stories he’d ever read were fairytales his mother had written for him before she fell ill. He had to make a good impression on Deanna if he hoped to get the job, and so he nodded with confidence.

  “Good, I love reading too. I’ve got lots of books upstairs, in my library. Maybe I’ve got something you might like... What do you usually enjoy reading most?”

  “I couldn’t really say, ma’am...” he replied. “I used to love my mother’s fairytales – stories about the Aelians.”

  Perhaps he hadn’t said the right thing, thought Mordraud, when he felt all eyes on him.

  “Aelians?!”

  “Yes, well... Cambirian the last king, monsters that live in nightmares, warriors in golden armour who defend fair maidens... stuff like that...”

  “I don’t know anything about the Aelians, nothing at all. And then, Cambirian... I’ve never heard of him,” murmured Deanna.

  “Oh, they’re just fairytales my mother used to write for my brother
and I, when she was teaching us to read... nothing important...”

  “Excuse me, my boy, what did you say the name was of that king of the... Aelians?” Adraman interrupted, with a dark look on his face.

  “Cambirian, the Ancient and the First. His name means he who dominates the heart of all things,” replied Mordraud without stopping to think, simply fishing the information out of his memory. He didn’t yet understand the reason for all that interest. They were just fairytales Eglade had told him a thousand times before putting him to bed. Simple, innocent stories of his people.

  “One day, when I was much younger and was studying in Calhann to fight alongside my father, I asked a well-known history academic who lived there what the word Cambria meant. Well, he had no idea. He only knew that it was an ancient Aelian word. I didn’t even know this people existed. Cambirian... the heart of all things...” Adraman’s voice drifted, fading out in the room like a wisp of smoke.

  “Did your mother tell you anything else about the Aelians?!” Deanna inquired, finally revealing a sincere smile. “I’d like to know about them...”

  “Well, of course... I still remember lots of fairytales. The Aelian ones were my favourites...”

  But was he saying something he shouldn’t? He certainly hadn’t told them all his mother was an Aelian, concluded Mordraud. Eglade had repeated to the point of exhaustion that he should never tell anybody about her, nobody at all. But the fairytales were different. Mordraud had always believed they were legends all children used to listen to before falling asleep. Perhaps he’d done something wrong – but Deanna’s smile was convincing him quite the opposite was true.

  “Well then, I very much hope you’ll tell me all the other stories too,” she uttered, wiping her lips with a white handkerchief. “I can’t wait.”

  Mordraud nodded with satisfaction and turned his attentions back to his plate, overwhelmed by a sudden hunger. The tension gripping him faded, guided by the wine and those bewitching eyes.

  Eyes that could convince him to say anything, should they want him to.

  ***

  “Aelian?! Listen to me Deanna: it isn’t normal for a boy to know stories about the Aelians! It’s a complicated subject, and not part of traditional folklore! Spirits of the woods – that I could understand... But he seems to know them well!”