by Wilf Jones
Of the men, besides Gordon and Seth, Tregar noted only the husbands of Kate and Rosemary – namely Harry and Robert, both taciturn men who hardly spoke to the wizard all evening – and Cal who was Owen Cookson’s middle son. He was slightly smaller than average and had a wayward eye which made conversation with him an odd experience as the right eye looked in all directions save forward. This handicap, however, seemed not to worry him and Tregar ended up thinking him the most pleasant natured of the whole company. He found it merely curious at this stage that Seth consistently avoided conversation with his brother.
A courteous girl of fourteen or so asked them to take their seats while soup was served and Owen had Tregar sit at his right hand. There were no delicacies, just good homely food: soup, roasted lamb, potatoes and green vegetables, or as a treat lettuce and tomatoes. Owen Cookson’s conversation was as straightforward as the victuals.
‘So Master Tregar, you’re here for the King?’ His shrewd eyes fixed upon the wizard making him feel uncomfortable. The man had already guessed that Tregar’s news wouldn’t be good news, and Tregar couldn’t help feeling guilty about it. He finished the bite of bread he had taken after his soup and, after a sip of water, began reluctantly to tell his tale.
‘I bear more than the King’s greetings, Mr. Cookson. I carry his instructions. May I ask, before I continue, have ye had any news of the North lately?’
‘Not many farmers travel at this time of year. Too much to do. And we don’t get many visitors apart from traders out of Coldharbour or Riverport.’
‘But you’ve had some news, surely?’
‘Yes, we’ve heard a few things. From Coldharbour mostly. There were stories of strange goings on up beyond the Francon. I didn’t reckon much to them.’
‘But what did they say?’
‘Oh, something about armies or villains or something, and if you’ll believe it some nonsense or other about ghosts.’ He said the word ‘ghosts’ as if it left a foul taste. He took some water. ‘There’s nothing more stupid, if you ask me.’
‘Well then. Let me tell ye what I know, nonsense or not. We’ve had positive reports that someways north of here there’s a marauding army destroying villages and towns as it goes. Outlanders or The White Men they’ve been called, but we haven’t a clue who they are or where they’re from.’
‘And this is for definite, Tregar?’ Seth asked, the look on his face and the tone of voice almost copying his father, surprising the wizard who had initially thought them quite dissimilar, ‘So how far North are we talking about?’
‘We don’t know. The Army of the House of Sands has gone to face them but we’ve heard nothing since they reached Greteth, the fortress at the end of the Francon. They’d seen ‘nothing substantial’ according to their last message.’
‘Is it not just rumour then?’ This a steady, reliable sort of voice.
‘I’m afraid it isn’t, Gordon, it’s something more than rumour if it can stop the King’s Messengers. Besides all this seems part of one strategy. Have you heard of our problem with Masachea?’
Cookson snorted. ‘We’re not as cut off as all that, Tregar.’
‘Aye, well, of course not. Anyway the situation is unchanged. More than half of our force is held up on the Eastern border. What you won’t know about is the trouble in Gothery.’
‘There’s never war in Gothery!’ The farmer seemed shocked. There was general upset around the table as Tregar explained what he knew of the situation. Gotherians were a peaceful, hardworking race much like themselves, good neighbours and, if you went far enough back, many of them kinsmen to the people of the Segyllin Part. War in the east and north and now in Gothery: it began to seem to some of them that everything good and decent was under attack in some way.
Tregar tried to allay their fears by playing down the threat of war in the west but Cookson at least wasn’t taken in.
‘You say this Black Company is not but a small band of trouble makers, yet by the sound of things they’ll be ruin to Gothery and us too if this goes on. What will Mador do about it?’
‘There is a plan though I’m not sure I can tell you all about it, good folk though you are.’
‘We need no secrets, Tregar. Words and stories go astray even in the most friendly places.’
‘Aye. Thank you for not pressing me. I think I might lighten your hearts a little though, without too much risk. The Lord Seama has taken on the troubles in Gothery and that should be a comfort to us all.’
There were nods and murmur of approval. Seama was the foremost wizard in all of Asteranor, renowned for righting injustices of any scale. News of his involvement was taken as reassurance that all would soon be well. The idea that Seama might be shipwrecked on the island of Tumboll was far from any mind at that table. Curiously Tregar had to fight with his own complacency to realize that nothing was certain.
The diners were only half aware of where all this was leading and Tregar decided to be more direct.
‘Mador and Seama have decided that our Northern mystery needs resolving and that if there is an army to fight, then we must fight it. Sands cannot be considered in our plans: it’s as though they have vanished.’
‘So,’ the farmer ventured, ‘we’re to send another army. Are you recruiting, Tregar? It would seem to be a waste of better talents.’
‘No, you’re right Mr. Cookson, this is no attempt to commission men. I am here because Anparas and Temor will arrive at this farm within the next four days. I’m to prepare their way and help guide the campaign.’
‘Two armies coming here?’ Cookson asked incredulous.
‘Yes.’
‘What, two thousand men in my small stead!’
‘Three thousand.’
‘What the bloody hell am I going to do with three thousand men? How will we feed them? How will we feed ourselves this winter if they eat us out now? Life’s not so easy on these moors, Master Wizard.’
‘They will bring food and supplies with them, of course, but yes, even if they have enough for a long journey, they’ll need your surplus anyway. There is no way of knowing—’
‘I won’t do it,’ Cookson wasn’t quite shouting but it was a close thing. ‘My job’s to look after these people here, keep them fed, keep them warm. I can’t just give their food and their fuel away, whatever you or Mador might think.’
‘Father!’ Seth broke in, ‘You can’t do nothing if Pars has to fight.’
‘If Pars has to fight? What do you know about war lad? Nowt, and neither do I. It’s all very well for our rulers to have their quarrels but they always expect us common folk to do the work and then lose our lives. How can I give away food for my hundred to over three thousand just so they can go and get themselves killed? It’s just not sense.’
‘Mr. Cookson!’ Tregar felt his temperature rising. He had to take a deep breath before he continued. ‘You may have a hundred to look after but cannot ye see, the King has the whole nation to protect. We’re not talking about a quarrel here but the defence of Pars, and you have a duty to help. Now wait! Before ye say any more I have a letter written to you in person by King Mador. I don’t know what it says but I think ye should read it now, before one of us says something we might regret.’
Tregar took out the letter and passed it, seal uppermost, into Cookson’s snatching hand. The farmer left the table to read it, walking about the back of the hall, and as he read a thoughtful frown grew upon his face. With a shrug of his shoulders he returned to the table.
‘I still don’t like it, but,’ he said waving the letter at the wizard, ‘given this I suppose… Aye, well, there’s no choice anyroad. I’ll give you what I have, but you’ll need more. How many days will you be here?’
Tregar was astonished at the sudden change in the man’s attitude. Completely astonished.
‘Er, well, I’m ha
ppy ye seem to appreciate the matter a wee bit better now, Mr. Cookson. As to the number of days, again I don’t yet know. Anparas’ll have a lot to say about our strategy before we set off. The soldiers will arrive in four days, as I said, and I’ll need to do some scouting meanwhile. We’ll have a better idea when I’ve seen what’s ahead. I’ve two days out and two days back so maybe I’ll find a better base for our start.’
‘Fair enough. You’ll probably find it best to head towards th’Hannay. I’ll get my people sorted before your return. Are you travelling alone, Tregar? Why not take a guide? I know a man who knows the area well and he has an interest in that direction.’
‘Well, I’d be grateful for the company. Six days alone is enough for a man like me. When can I meet this guide?’
‘You have already. It’s young Seth here.’
Seth had been watching and listening intently and now, for some reason blushing as he spoke, he said: ‘Thank you, Sir, if you agree to take me. I had a mind to travel that way anyroad but the journey’d be better in company. I’m like to be a help an’ all: I know all the quickest paths.’
‘He does that. Seth has been on those roads often enough. He was just waiting on my permission to travel them again. The time seems right.’
Seth grinned broadly, made up by the turn of events. ‘Thanks dad,’ he said and then added in a mock aside to Tregar:
‘I’ve been getting on his nerves lately. I reckon he just wants rid of me for a bit.’
The meal ended in much better humour than Tregar had had reason to expect. He could scarcely believe the change in Cookson’s response. That Mador was the fount of all authority in Pars he knew full well, and one might expect his words to carry weight, but for his letter to provoke such a transformation was nothing short of incredible. Not a grumble had escaped the farmer’s lips since he’d finished reading it. Tregar was more impressed by Mador now than he had been for some time. What had he written? Tregar didn’t have the gall to ask.
ANCIENT HISTORY
Tumboll 3057.7.27
The Necromancer made a sign and the guards of the chamber closed and locked the door. They seemed relieved to have it shut.
‘Do you think she feels anything now?’
The Necromancer was surprised by the General’s question.
‘What do you feel? Now that you share her blood, will it not be the same?’
The General grimaced. In the dancing flare of torchlight his features were hideous, his voice like stones in a tin funnel. ‘I am not strung up like game to be bled and bled again.’
‘You sound as though you have some sympathy for her plight.’
‘Maybe I do. In different degrees we all here suffer the same affliction. Fellow feeling is to be expected. Even among us exiles the ‘blood’ does not govern all our thought.’
‘Free will is still alive then in the court of the Banished God?’
The General coughed up a laugh. ‘He can’t seem to get rid of it.’
The Necromancer was surprised once again. These Kumites were not supposed to have a sense of humour. He would have to reassess his preconceptions. What did he really know about them after all? It was true that the Halfi and the Kumites were linked by the nature of their curse, but at least the Halfi lived a true life under the sun, felt the rain fall upon their heads, walked in the snow; they knew about death, they saw babies born, they understood both sadness and joy. What was life for the Exiles? It was too easy, given the way the Kumites looked, to presume that they knew only pain and fear, envy and hatred. The General’s dry wit and his pity were a revelation.
What did Rillia feel? Nothing? Perhaps he ought to reassess that presumption too. Now that all the emotion had gone he could afford to be more objective. And yet it was hard for him now to think of her as anything more than a carcass. Too many years had passed as she hung from her web, too much blood had been taken. He had witnessed the slow destruction of everything she was to him, year following year following year. By now he was no longer sure the creature she had become deserved the same name. Such a time had passed that he no longer cared. Her obsession had long since killed the love of Dulsibot for his darling Rilliana.
The Necromancer turned his back upon the chamber.
‘It’s this way,’ he said indicating a modest round arched doorway of the Tolmarck period. The castle had been built long before the Halfi had arrived on Tumboll. The Necromancer took pleasure in explaining as they walked through it.
‘This is the oldest part of the Palace. It was largely ruinous when we came here, we had precious few tools allowed us and so the stonework for the most part is makeshift and rough. But here and there you can see some of the good, older work. Bagran’s great-grandfather had it built on the remains of the old temple. You’ll remember the Wizard talking about Bagran and the Sword, I think? Yes, this was the seat of the Anparites. They had it for more than six hundred years but just about the time Banya finally abandoned Pars blight fell upon the place. Or so I read! I haven’t come across any explanation of what the blight was or why it began just then, but certainly it lead to the downfall of the family on Tumboll. Their wealth, their abilities, their renown just seemed to dissolve into nothing. It was only when Cativaro Anparas took a bride from the House of Sands, Jessica, and moved his seat to Arbreston to the south of Gull Lake, that the family-line and fortunes revived. It was under his rule that Anparas finally became a Royal House. Now he was a strange one, Cativaro: the seventh son of the then Lord Canto Anparas who was himself—’
‘Necromancer, your story-telling does not have the potency of your singing.’
‘Ah,’ the Necromancer cringed slightly, ‘Yes, you are right, it does not carry the same power of compulsion. Forgive me, this tale is not really old enough for you. It must seem dull. For me the history of my enemy is a lively study.’
The General snorted at that. ‘Lively? They are all dead and gone. Really Necromancer, to know your enemy is one thing but to analyse the small doings of his forebears smacks of unhealthy fascination, does it not?’
The Necromancer shrugged. He was not offended. ‘I read a great deal and I forget little; and though it may seem nothing to you I have walked the confines of this house and this Isle for nearly five hundred years. Reading is my only release. As for subject matter, I must read whatever I can lay my hands upon. With Gothery and Pars being my nearest neighbours, what there is rarely strays beyond their own present concerns or their heroic past.’
He stopped talking and stopped walking: they had come to another arched door. It was not locked and opened easily as though the hinges had been well oiled. Beyond it lay a steep flight of stairs, descending into darkness. There was a faint sound of chanting emanating from the depths.
‘But anyway, I will not apologise for my reading. It is ever illuminating to study the past. You never know what you might discover: this for example.’ He made a slow gesture, uncurling his fingers from the fist he had made with his right hand, and as they uncurled the walls of the stairwell began to glow softly. ‘Not my magic: I found the secret to this stair and the hall below in a book. And I found the book in a hidden library set within the walls of the palace, completely intact and undisturbed for many centuries.’
‘Lucky for you. Shall we go down?’
The Necromancer smiled and led the way. ‘Luck? I am not so sure. It was almost as if I remembered how to find it and that was very strange given that I had never laid foot on the island until then. And it was an interesting find, to say the least. From its contents the library seemed to have nothing to do with the Anparites though it was hidden within a house they had built. I would hazard that in all the centuries they lived here no more than a handful of people came to know anything about it. In fact the walls seem to carry the memory of only one man. His name was Lamuel and he too was a historian but of far greater resource than I can claim. Let
me tell you General, there are texts in that place that even you would be happy to read. Texts that speak of the time before the Choosing.’
The General stopped in his tracks.
‘The Choosing is known? But the Wizard assured us—’
‘What would it matter? They’ll know all about you soon enough.’
‘I am concerned they may already know too much. I am concerned there may be some knowledge here that could help them. I am concerned that we are expected.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about Lamuel’s books, General. As I said, the library was well hidden and its use is exclusive to me. What you need to worry about is whether the Smiling One has managed to locate all the copies made of Haslem’s version of things. I say version because I think that Lamuel was his source. There is a book of Haslem’s letters, written to Lamuel that—’
‘Wait, wait, wait!’ the General butted in, ‘There is something missing here: who, precisely, is Haslem?’
The Necromancer was incredulous. ‘He did tell you about The Song of Ages, didn’t he?’
The General was not pleased. ‘Neither the Wizard, nor My Lord Master thought to mention it.’ He attempted to clear his throat without success, anger seemed to clog it up. ‘What is this thing so unimportant that I, who have command of the entire expedition, should not be told of it?’
The Necromancer took a deep breath. ‘The Song of Ages is a book giving a history of, well, everything. Its discovery is what initiated all of this. Haslem wrote it down and you might thank him as our benefactor but I think the information came originally from Lamuel. We have destroyed one copy of the book but we know there were several made and sent to who knows where. It would not, I think, be a disaster if the book were found by members of The Council but it is hard to say what they might take from it. Certainly this work is what gave our friend the means of making the passage.’