by Wilf Jones
‘Just thank me for saving your life and let her get on with it.’
‘But they’ll all hear her.’
‘What if they do? They’ll think she’s being beaten – not an unusual event in this house.’
Something of their exchange must have permeated Helen’s wall of rage because she was suddenly still and quiet. As they turned to see, all the colour of her emotion fled her face, and all the furious strength left her limbs. She sank to her knees and by degrees curled up on the floor, clutching her stomach as though she had lost a baby. And then she began to wail, low and wordless and awful to hear. It was the cry of a lost girl knowing that her greatest source of constant and deep love was gone forever; the cry of a child alone in a terrible world with no comprehension in her heart of how she might possibly continue. It was the cry that all mankind must make over and over again.
Sigrid and Angren and Seama exchanged looks. Sigrid shook her head. How much more harm would these monsters do, how many more hearts would they break?
‘It’s time we were done with this Black Company,’ she said, ‘Time to end it.’
It would have been impossible to comfort Helen so no one tried. They just let her work through the pain and after a long ten minutes the sobbing congealed into silence. Without saying a word to them, she got up, walked over to the heavy curtains and drew them back. Seama watched as she stood silhouetted by lightning, staring out at the forgotten storm. When she opened the window the wind snatched it from her grasp and slammed it against the outside wall, cracking the glass; the gale blasted into the room, billowing the curtains, spattering rain onto her face. The sky boomed in the repeated stabbing light but Helen Travers was unmoved. As she faced the elements, hair flying, Seama had a fancy that it was she who ordered the storm, that her emotion had taken mighty force and the tempest of her anger was punishing the earth for its crime. Was there synchronicity in nature? Could it be that the emotion of one tiny part could be played out on a wider stage? Perhaps every cataclysmic event Earnor had suffered was as much dependent on the actions and feelings of normal men and women as on the cruel whims of gods.
Helen closed the window and pulled the drapes and came back into the room. Rain had washed the tears from her pale face. Gone was the Queen of Tempest and now a bedraggled, upset young woman stood before them.
‘Must we stay in this room?’ she asked desolately.
‘I am afraid we must,’ Seama told her, ‘till nearly dawn.’
She tightened her lips and flopped down into a chair. ‘Let it come quickly then.’
Angren picked up the decanter of brandy, shook off the marble stopper and poured himself another drink. Seama wasn’t happy about it and glared at the Aegardean.
‘Alright, alright. I’ll pour half of it back. It’s just a night cap.’ He tipped nearly half of the amber liquid back into the decanter and then made himself comfortable on the settee. ‘I think we should all get some rest, don’t you Seama?’
‘I think you should, and you too, ladies. I’ll keep watch.’
‘But we can take turn about,’ Sigrid said.
‘No. We haven’t that much time so it’s hardly worth it,’ Seama assured her, ‘besides I want a good look around this room before we leave. You carry on but I’ll need the candles lit.’
Angren and Sigrid were quick to make themselves comfortable. Angren kept to his sofa and Sigrid took the bed. Helen Travers made no move to attempt sleep. Seama briefly considered making her sleep but after his own recent bereavement he understood the need for silent thought. He left her to it and began his cautious search.
He searched cupboards, drawers, the desk, the Sorcerer’s spare clothes and even the garderobe. After an hour, with the night in its second half and the storm far away, Seama had found precisely nothing of interest. There were weapons of course, a hidden cache of precious gems – stolen no doubt from the strong rooms of much of Eastern Aegarde – a locked money box that when opened revealed only a booty of gold, and several items of arcane significance such as pure chalk for marking out pentacles, tannis root incense and almost fifty talismans. But there was nothing peculiar, nothing that indicated any connection with a paymaster or superior. By all the evidence, bar his intuition, this Black Company was working for itself. Seama was tired by now and very frustrated.
He decided to try a different technique. Instead of trying to find the object, whatever it might be, he would force the object to reveal itself. The only problem was that the spell he intended to use normally demanded a most vital piece of information: the Name of the item sought. Seama was looking for anything that might give him a clue but that wasn’t specific enough. And so his first request was for ‘a letter of instruction’. The spell he used was not complicated and required Seama to say: ‘Any letter of instruction given to the Chief Sorcerer, who but lately dwelled here, come to me’, but he had to say it in the Language of Command taught in the Books of Lore, using the True Name given to objects of such description. Seama had no difficulty in remembering the True Name of a ‘letter of instruction’ – a’levella – and within seconds of him speaking the spell he heard a rustling, though nothing appeared. He traced the sound to a jerkin that lay in the bottom of a cloak cupboard. From a pocket he’d previously missed he extracted a fold of official looking paper. It was a summons ‘to appear for the King’s pleasure in the Court at Garassa’. Not what he was looking for but what he had asked for. It was an interesting document though in that it named the sorcerer as ‘Gaspar Semmento, an alien to the country of Aegarde.’ He would never now appear before Agwis and Seama would never know where exactly he came from.
At least the spell had worked. This time he would try another Name. If there was a connection with someone else, he reasoned, and they were sorcerers after all, then there may be some means of communication. Again he spoke strange words, speaking the name inherent to a material means of communication – kozeg i kozloma. He spoke quietly, the power was all in the language. Nothing happened. Seama looked around the room for any sign of movement but was dissapointed.
‘Damn’ he muttered. Despondent he returned to his port but before the glass reached his lips he heard a sharp crack. It was the sound of something very hard hitting the varnished parquet floor. He looked towards Angren and saw, rolling on the floor, the stopper that had been used to keep the dust off the brandy. Seama snatched it up and examined it. It was a marble. A dobber as he would have called it when he was young: an inch and a half wide piece of white brushed, black marble that had been smoothed into a ball.
He tutted rather loudly.
More or less at the same moment Sigrid sat up in her bed cursing softly about something. The noises were enough to rouse Helen from her reverie.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked. Both Seama and Sigrid answered at the same time. Seama apologised.
‘After you.’
‘Just trying to get comfortable – lying on something hard.’
‘What?’
‘’m trying to fish it out – what about you?’
‘Oh, nothing really. I thought I’d found what I was looking for but it turns out to be a child’s best dobber.’ He explained his spell to Helen as Sigrid struggled with her clothes. He was pleased that at least the girl was taking an interest.
‘Why did it appear then, if it’s not what you named?’
‘Good, old fashioned coincidence, I expect. Angren must have been playing with it as he fell asleep, and dropped it as he relaxed. I’ll make sure when he wakes.’
‘Aah. Got you.’
‘What is it, Sigrid?’
‘Oh, something I picked up on Tumboll – down in the passage when I was with Ruspa. Had it in my trouser pocket ever since. Funny I haven’t noticed it till now.’
Seama looked up sharply. ‘Can I see that?’
Sigrid shrugged and tossed it
across the room for Seama to catch. It was made of a stone similar to Angren’s marble though much darker. The shape was peculiar: a little like an hour glass but thicker in the middle and flat at each end. Seama studied it minutely but after a few minutes he sighed and said:
‘Nothing. Just a piece of stone, something from a game perhaps, like the marble. I’ll keep hold of it for now though if you don’t mind?’
‘Keep it. I’m off to sleep.’
Seama put the marble and the Tumboll stone in his pocket and went over to the window as Sigrid snuggled down. It was inky black outside. ‘There’s still over an hour to go,’ he said, ‘Aren’t you sleepy, Helen?’
‘No, not now.’
‘Then let’s talk. Tell me about your home and about your family if you can.’
SWORDS AND SORCERY
Moreda 3057.8.6
SWORDS
They talked through till the eager rooks began their black clamour. The night had slipped away and far in the east a crimson glow preceded the rising sun.
‘The day breaks red.’ Helen announced as she drew the curtains.
‘And will continue so,’ Seama said. ‘It’s time to be doing.’
They woke the others. Sigrid needed a quick wash before she was fully awake, but Angren was alert immediately.
‘This is it then, Seama. We’ve been through a lot to get here, let’s hope we can finish it.’
‘We must if we’re to go on to the next task.’
‘There’s more?’
‘As we discussed, Angren, but there’ll be time to talk some more about the options when we’ve rid the country of these particular devils. Ah, Sigrid. If you’re ready we’ll go.’
His plan was to leave the house by the front door. If there were horses close-by then they would raise the alarm themselves. Seama wanted to be chased across the fields by men groggy with sleep and hangovers. If there were no horses in the yard the rumpus would have to wait until they reached the stables beyond the moat. What he didn’t want was to be discovered before they could leave the house.
Seama led the way with Sigrid and the girl following closely and Angren taking the rear. All had weapons in hand, even Helen who carried a knife taken from one of the guards. One of Sigrid’s twin swords was sheathed for now: instead she partnered the other with a jewelled dagger she had taken from the bedroom. She counted this as recompense for the scare the sorcerer had given her. Seama had insisted on examining the blade, but it was simple metal and he had passed it safe.
They crept along darksome corridors to the head of the main stairs. Snores, giggles and moans echoed in rooms to left and right but no one challenged them. Seama was aware of a slight feeling of disappointment. Though he didn’t want to be caught, he would have liked to lessen enemy numbers a little as he went.
The opportunity presented itself in the great hall at the foot of the stairs. Six men sat or lay on the wide steps, all asleep with their tankards all around. There was no way to get past without waking them or killing them. Whatever happened it was going to be risky. Dreading the inevitable creaks and groans from the ancient timbers they descended the stair and were lucky a enough to reach their prey without raising either a grunt or a grumble.
Seama signalled Angren and Sigrid to dispatch the men as quickly as possible while he held back. He had no scruples about killing sleeping men, but he’d be more likely to save the girl if anything went wrong. It should have taken just the two of them anyway. In the gloom of the hall he watched as they began their clinical task.
One: a stab through the side of the throat; two: a knife between the ribs. A gurgle, a shuddering breath quieter than snoring, and two were dead. Angren’s second was a disaster. He again went for the throat but in the half-light didn’t see the iron collar. It rang with a dull note and jarred Angren’s arm. He’d killed his man but the other three were awake in a second and ready to fight. Angren would have been in trouble if Seama hadn’t leapt down to help. In a short flurry of blades, arms and legs, Seama dealt decisively with his quota while Sigrid got her second with the sorcerer’s knife. They were clear but they’d made too much noise.
Shouts came from behind as they ran pell-mell across the marble floor to the doorway. Two men running in from outside to see what the trouble was found trouble for themselves. Again Sigrid’s speed was frightening, downing both in the one slash and stab movement. Pushing Helen before him, Seama made for the horses picketed in a corner of the gravel drive. There were no guards: they lay inside the door, bleeding on the white marble. The sound of many footsteps on that marble clattered in their ears as they tried to mount. The horses were confused and made life difficult but need fired Seama’s efforts and he calmed them with a single, powerful word. As the enemy burst from the house the four thundered across the bridge, chasing the remaining horses before them.
The fields were sodden. Great clods of earth were thrown up by the horses’ hooves and the escapees were caked in mud very quickly. Angren was surprised to note, as they crossed ditches and fences in their race to the woods, that he was, by many a teeter, easily the worst horseman. Helen was masterly and Sigrid little less so. They had cleared over a quarter of a mile before the first pursuit was mounted but looking back over his shoulder, Angren was amazed to see that the entire house was out already. Despite their debauchery these men were quick off the mark. Angren urged his mount onward and they pounded on through the puddles, and the spray marked their passage.
They kept no order in their flight and Angren was thrilled to see Helen forging ahead. She looked good in the saddle but her face was grim with concentration. What a fine girl she was, he thought: what a pity they’d started off on the wrong foot. He decided, reasonably, that it would be interesting getting to know her. The reflection that she was under twenty and he was over forty didn’t linger for more than a second. She was so beautiful and… and now was hardly the time for any such thoughts. Angren was angry with himself. He had a job to do, there were wrongs to right, payments to be exacted. Yes for Helen’s sake and her murdered father but what about all the others: Bassalo and his children, the villages these men had destroyed, the lives they had taken or ruined? And what about his own brother Dag? Was it six years now since Morgan Trant had blighted his life? Angren had spent much of the time since trying to catch up with the renegade but to no effect. Trant and his men had always given him the slip. But Angren wasn’t the sort of man to forget an injustice, nor the sort of man to forgive one either. Of late other ventures may have put the weapon-master off the scent but Angren knew that sooner or later they’d meet, and there would be a reckoning. Perhaps today would be that day.
The smouldering embers of Angren’s fury were blown into a flame by that thought. Never mind Terrance and Seama lecturing him about revenge and how it was a bad idea, Angren had no time for such a notion. Revenge was right and necessary and to be relished. Or at least the thought of it was to be relished. It was an odd thing but Angren had noticed that when the moment came the sense of satisfaction rarely lived up to the anticipation. Though that never put him off finishing the job.
There would be little time to draw out either the agony or the ecstasy of revenge in this fight. Angren knew it would be fast and furious, and all the better for it. Looking back, precariously keeping his saddle, he was alarmed to see that about twenty of the fastest, first horsed riders were gaining fast. He wondered if Trant was one of them.
‘Ride on,’ he yelled, ‘Ride on! They’re catching us.’
The trees were in sight but where was Gumb and his men? Angren could see no one ahead and his suspicious thoughts became uncharitable.
‘Pull right,’ Seama was yelling, ‘Pull right. We’ve come too far over. There they are!’
So they were. Angren and the others followed Seama’s lead by wheeling sharply towards Gumb’s cavalry and as they did so their pursuers gained more gro
und. Angren realized that the enemy couldn’t see past the spray and were unaware of their peril.
A horn sounded its clarion note: a brave, clear, beautiful sound voiced loud over the fields. Lesser horns broke out to support it and Gumb’s battle made the ground shake as they began their advance.
The twenty in close pursuit, an ample force to retrieve four, found themselves outnumbered three to one and didn’t like the look of it. They pulled up and tried to turn away from the onslaught and might have saved themselves but for Gumb’s mounted archers. Adept at shooting from horseback the confusion they caused with their arrows was enough to delay the attempted retreat. With several killed outright and many unhorsed, they were easy pickings. Five escaped, saved only by Gumb’ s order to withdraw. The baron had seen, half-a-mile distant, the larger force of the Black Company ordering their reply and he had to be ready for them.
His nephew, with an exultant look upon his face rode back to him. He had killed a man and was proud of the deed.
‘That’s twenty less to worry about, Uncle.’ he cried, ‘and look: there she is! Helen, Helen!’ He leapt from his horse and ran to meet his sister as she approached. Seama, Angren and Sigrid meanwhile went to speak with the Captain and ‘Berta.
‘You managed then,’ said Bibron. ‘Quite a beauty isn’t she?’
‘Yes and yes,’ Seama responded. ‘But more importantly she’s unharmed, more or less. Terrance and Guy are in place; in the house, the Chief Sorcerer is dead and also another twelve of his men. With that twenty on the field our enemy is reduced. Are we ready for the fight, Bibron?’
‘I am if you’ve already killed the sorcerer but I don’t look forward to fightin’ on horseback.’
‘Nor me’, said ‘Berta. ‘What about you and me waiting while a few have been knocked off, eh?’
‘I’m with you there. How about you, Angren?’