by Paul Freeman
“Noooo!!!!”
She fell to the ground, and all went dark.
“Shhh. For the love of the gods, quieten down, damn you.” His eyes snapped open. Several moments passed as he, first, tried to figure out who he was, and then where he was. His mouth was parched, his whole body ached, especially the back of his shoulder, where he was sure a flame raged there, blistering his skin and boiling his blood.
“Where…?” His voice cracked, agony shooting through him in waves as he struggled to sit up.
“Hold still, Tomas, you are safe here for now, but if you continue to yell I’m not sure that will continue to be the case for much longer,” Rorbert said.
Memories began to tumble together. A cold feeling of dread washed over him. “Aliss!” He sat up with a jolt, and pain erupted all down his back, bringing tears to his eyes.
“Lie still, you fool, or you will rip open the stitches.” The old villager eased him back down onto the straw-filled bed.
Finally he recognised Rorbert and his cottage. “Water,” he said. The older man quickly held a cup to his lips. Tomas pushed his hand away and gulped the liquid down greedily.
“Easy, too fast and it’ll make you sick.”
Tomas drained the cup and handed it back with a nod of thanks. “What has happened, Rorbert? How am I here?”
“First, let me warn you, keep your voice down. The magistrate’s soldiers are in the village. They are looking for you. They’ve been here for two days, so I’m guessing they’re not going anywhere until they find you. They’re making such a nuisance of themselves that I suspect any one of the village-folk would turn you in just to be rid of them.” Rorbert refilled the cup from a small jug and handed it to Tomas. “As to the second question, Brother Joshan brought you here three days ago. He found you by the river and came to me for help. We would have brought you to the monastery, but it was too far and you were close enough to death as it was. He patched you up and applied the poultice to your wound. If you were wondering what the stink is, it’s the salve Brother Joshan applied.” In truth, Tomas had yet to regain full control and awareness of all his senses, but now that Rorbert mentioned it, his nose wrinkled at the pungent odour. “What happened, Tomas? I was long enough in the King’s Lancers to recognise an arrow wound.”
“Aliss,” he answered, “they took her to the keep. I have to get her back!” Tomas tried to sit up again. This time he took it slower, and with a little help from the village elder, he managed to attain a seated position. Pain still shot though him, forcing a grimace and several silent curses.
“You are in no condition to go anywhere.” Rorbert shook his head.
“Where is Brother Joshan now?” Tomas asked through gritted teeth.
“He was here this morning. He said he would look in later.”
“Find him,” Tomas interrupted.
“You are in no position to…”
“Find him!” Tomas insisted, causing Rorbert to take a step back.
“Okay, but first eat something.” Tomas nodded his assent and eased himself off the bed, while Rorbert piled some bread and smoked meat on a wooden plate, before placing it on the only table in the room. “I’ll be back shortly. Don’t leave this room,” the village elder said before turning and leaving.
Easing himself into a rickety wooden chair, Tomas contemplated the meal. His stomach growled loudly reminding him he had not eaten in days.
A little while later, exactly how long he couldn’t be sure, he was woken from a restless slumber by the sound of the door creaking.
“Come in, come in quickly,” Rorbert instructed anxiously. Behind him a figure in a grey-hooded robe ducked through the narrow doorway. Once inside, the priest pushed back the cowl to reveal a worn unshaven face, with tufts of grey hair standing on top of an otherwise bald head. Cold, hard eyes, the colour of a winter sky regarded him.
“So he yet lives,” a rasping voice came from the throat of the stooped priest.
“Aye. Tomas is a strong one.”
“You speak as if I am not here before you,” Tomas said.
“Whist, boy! Let me see the wound.” The priest fumbled none too gently at the dressing, releasing the vapours from the poultice. Tomas flinched when he probed the wound grunting in satisfaction. “The gods will not claim you for a while yet. Now tell me, what has happened?”
“The magistrate has taken Aliss,” Tomas snarled. The priest shook his head and turned to Rorbert for an explanation.
“Aye, what Tomas says is true. The magistrate was called here on another matter. A charge of witchcraft was levelled against Aliss by another woman. It was her baby the men searched for…”
“Hold,” the old priest cut Rorbert off. “Another woman? A baby? How does this concern Aliss and the charge of witchcraft? Please, start from the beginning.”
Rorbert began again. How the men of the village went in search of the missing baby, what happened while they were away in the Great Wood. Tomas too listened to the story intently, a pained expression crossing his face when the older man related how his wife had been taken.
“Hmmm.” The robed priest sat back into a chair. “The babe may well have been taken to the Great Wood, but not by any wolves.”
“What do you mean?” Rorbert asked.
“Enough on that for now.” He turned towards Tomas then. “And you, like a big dumb ox went thundering after them, facing the magistrate’s guards all alone.”
“They are hypocrites. The king surrounds himself with mages and then orders the arrest of women who are just helping their community with simple healing gifts. And the church who have whole orders who practise magic…”
“Enough! Do not mock the church in my presence,” the priest fumed.
“You know I speak the truth, Joshan.”
“Brother Joshan.” The priest regarded him levelly with his grey, cold eyes.
“Aye, Brother Joshan if you prefer.” Tomas met the stare of the older cleric unflinching.
“So what will you do?” Brother Joshan asked as Rorbert handed him a steaming cup. He blew gently before sipping from the edge. His face relaxed as the hot liquid worked its magic.
“I will go to the keep, and I will get her back.”
“And how do you propose to do this?” the priest asked between hurried sips. “You will simply throw your life away, and the girl will die anyway.”
“We shall see.”
“Yes, yes we shall,” the robed cleric answered.
“I don’t believe I’m hearing this,” Rorbert cut in. “Are you going to allow him to go through with this foolishness?” He turned his eyes on the priest.
“How do you propose I stop him?”
“You are a priest,” Rorbert said, as if that alone could halt the raging storm.
“Perhaps I could call on the All Father to freeze his legs and hold him here trapped until the girl perishes…” Joshan raised one bushy eyebrow as he spoke, his sarcasm not lost on the village elder.
“You still have your cavalry sabre?” Tomas’ eyes bored into the older man.
“If you go out to that street you will die. They will cut you down.”
“Bring me the sword,” the blacksmith insisted.
“I will not be party to your death.” Rorbert turned to the priest, opening his arms while his face pleaded for assistance.
“Bring me your sabre or by the All Father I’ll tear this place apart until I find it.”
“You are a strong man, Tomas, and a skilled hunter, but you are sorely wounded. They will gut you in a heartbeat.”
“Bring me the sword!” Tomas fumed.
Rorbert turned to Brother Joshan again, but the cleric simply shrugged. Silence descended leaving the room thick with tension.
“Very well, throw your life away. Rorbert opened a chest at the back of the house and reverently took out his sheathed weapon and handed it to Tomas.
The big blacksmith drew a hand-span length of the blade from the leather sheath exposing the polished ste
el. Rorbert looked on in silence.
“It all changes from here,” Tomas said looking up from the blade and towards Joshan. The priest regarded him with unreadable eyes.
“What does?” Rorbert asked.
“He knows, ask him,” Tomas answered, his eyes still on the cleric. He looked away then and turned to Rorbert. “I was not always a blacksmith, old friend.” He brushed past the confused older man and out onto the street.
At first nobody noticed him as he walked between the scattered dwellings, then after several double glances people stopped and stared as he calmly made his way towards the blackened shell at the edge of town. As he approached his burnt-out home he drew the sabre, flinging the leather sheath away. Two liveried guards peeled away from the house when they saw him approach. The first died with a smirk still on his face. The second was cut down while he fumbled for his sword. Overhead dark clouds suddenly burst spilling rain onto the heads of the village folk as they looked on in shock as their blacksmith cold-bloodedly slaughtered two of the magistrate’s guards. A clap of thunder rumbled in the darkening sky. In the distance Rorbert watched with his jaw open, uncomprehending at what he’d just witnessed. Beside him the grey-robed priest shook his head sadly.
Lorian: The house of Lorian, Alcraz, Sunsai Empire
“Master, your guest has arrived.” The tall servant bowed low, keeping his eyes from Lorian’s. A grin spread across the fat noble’s fleshy face as he plucked a small, cooked and peeled egg from a silver bowl on a table before his couch. Along with the eggs the table was packed with all manner of savoury treats, steaming bowls of fish stew, roasted ducks, legs of mutton, platters of bread and cheeses, and silver jugs full to the brim with ruby-red wine.
“Excellent. Show him in.” Lorian popped the whole egg into his mouth and sat back into a sea of cushions.
“Lorian,” the man greeted his host as he walked calmly into the room. “No, no, don’t get up,” he said to the fat man. Lorian raised an eyebrow and grinned not giving any indication of attempting to extract himself from the mass of cushions surrounding him.
“Sit, Aknell, I have had some refreshment prepared.”
“Ha, your refreshments, my friend, would shame any of the emperor’s feasts,” Aknell answered, allowing his gaze to fall on the mountain of food before him. “Before I do, I have a small gift.”
“A gift? For me?” Lorian beamed. He pushed himself up into a sitting position. His eyes brimmed with unconcealed eagerness.
“Oh, do not get too excited. It is merely a small token.” Aknell clapped his hands and turned towards the door. A tall fair-haired man walked through the doorway, his arms and shoulders rippled with power beneath a sleeveless leather vest. He held his head high with an arrogant sneer playing across his face.
Lorian’s breath caught in his throat. His eyes darted over to where his own servant stood impassively. He was suddenly acutely aware of how far away his two armed guards were, even if it was just out in the hallway. There was something familiar about the pale-skinned northerner, he thought, once his initial panic subsided.
“What have you brought me, my friend?” he asked, managing to recompose himself quickly.
The big Nortman approached, his blond hair tied back from his head at the nape of his neck. He held out a polished wooden box caught between two powerful hands. Lorian glanced again at his servant. Although the man was little more than a body-servant, Lorian knew he had once been a warrior before his captivity. It gave him little comfort when the giant before him dominated the room so. Their eyes met; the fat man bit back his outrage at such impudence and looked away, his confidence overwhelmed by the burning arrogance in the pale blue of the other’s.
He turned his attention to the box and lifted the lid. A jewel of sublime clarity sparkled on a velvet cloth. “It is beautiful,” he said as he gently fished it out by the chain of gold it was attached to. He reached out with a chubby finger, hesitant to touch such perfection… yet, he knew he must possess it.
“This stone was mined from beneath Mount Draknoir and cut by the dark elves a thousand years before men walked on the surface of the world.” Aknell gently took the jewel from Lorian’s hands and eased the chain around the fat noble’s neck.
“Elves?” Lorian chuckled.
“I swear it is true.” Aknell smiled.
“It is beautiful,” Lorian beamed as he clasped his hand around the gift now hanging from his neck. “But why…?”
Aknell cut off the question with a raised hand. “A token of friendship, that is all.”
“I have never seen its like.”
“The dark elves are long gone but their treasures remain to amaze us yet.”
“You do amuse me, Aknell but elves are nothing but tales for children. Elves, dragons and the magical knights who fought them should remain between the pages where they belong.”
“As you say,” Aknell said smiling, before helping himself to a goblet of wine.
“I recognise your new friend from the arena. I am thinking I may have been cheated out of a goodly sum of gold when last we met.”
Aknell laughed then and patted Lorian on the shoulder. “Come, let us eat. I am famished. A jewel crafted with elf magic is worth far more than thirty gold crowns.”
Lorian scowled but relented and helped himself to a whole roasted fowl. “So tell me,” he said as he tore soft white flesh from the bones of the bird, “how is it you are in possession of such a prize as an arena fighter? Not just any but the most talked about fighter in years.”
“Rolfgot is not a slave. I do not own him.”
“But he fights in the arena!” Lorian’s incredulous eyes opened wide. “How did you convince him to that insanity?”
“It was not I who convinced him, but the other way round.” Aknell grinned.
“He volunteered?”
“Not volunteered, demanded.”
“Why would he do such a thing?” Lorian’s head shook in incomprehension.
“Because he likes to kill.”
Lorian shivered involuntarily under the scrutiny of his friend. “Where did you find him?” he filled the nerve-wracking silence.
“He was literally washed up. He was found on the beach close to my villa by some of my field workers. When I first laid my eyes on him he was close to death. He had been in the water for some time, and had been stabbed several times in the chest and back. It was quite miraculous he still lived. I was curious to find out how he had landed there, so I bade my physician do what he could. He still has not told me what happened to him. I suspect he was part of a Nortman pirate crew and fell out with them for some reason and was tossed overboard. Who knows? A rumour has begun circulating among my workers that he is the son of Possodon, and that the sea god evicted him from his watery domain.”
“Ha, the son of a god in your employ. I can see how that would appeal to you.” Lorian chuckled. Aknell smiled in return.
“To be truthful I think he has no memory of the incident, or if he does, he is guarding it well. But, he has served me well, and I can’t say I’ve been out of pocket with him in my employ.” A smile crept across Aknell’s face.
“Hmmm,” Lorian grumbled. A single drop of red wine dribbled down his chin as he drank from a silver goblet. He wiped the trailing drip with a swipe, staining the sleeve of his white robe.
“So, my friend, tell me what news from the palace. I do so look forward to the titbits of gossip you are ever a font of.”
“Are you buttering me up with flattery? Now that you have stolen my money and scared me half to death with your pet Nortman?”
“Oh come, Lorian,” Aknell said. “The jewel I have gifted you is worth a hundred times our wager. If you are that sore I shall return the gold.”
“No, it is a lesson well learned.” Lorian grinned. His eyes narrowed then over the rim of his goblet. “The emperor has sent a ship laden with gold to his new son-in-law,” he blurted out then, giddy with excitement.
“Really?” Aknell stood up and
refilled Lorian’s cup. Wine spilled over the rim and both men laughed. “A dowry to be spent on gowns and jewels for Rosinnio perhaps?”
Lorian leaned in, his voiced dropping to a whisper, “To buy a crown. The king of Nortland is dying. He has no direct heir, only a collection of nephews and lords who all claim to be next in line. The strongest claim is Crawulf’s, Rosinnio’s new husband. There is one other whose is stronger, Crawulf’s elder brother, but he was lost at sea…” Lorian suddenly stopped and glanced over at the big Nortman standing like a statue against the far wall. Aknell followed his gaze.
“Do not trouble yourself.” Aknell laughed. “Rolfgot is no heir to a throne. He is too young to be the elder brother of this Crawulf, for a start.”
Lorian examined the lean, muscular figure of the tall Nortman. He nodded in satisfaction, before his eyes darted back to Aknell. “Yes. Perhaps though, it would be wise to learn a little more about your new pet.” When he glanced back at the Nortman he was met by a pair of unnaturally black eyes boring into him, undisguised contempt written there. He did not let his stare linger.
Aknell saw the exchange and turned to Rolfgot. “Perhaps you should wait outside. My carriage is in need of a guard.” The Nortman nodded and slowly departed the room. “Please, continue. So, this Crawulf is next in line for the throne. What need does he have of the emperor’s gold?”
“His is the strongest claim, but that does not mean the Nortlanders will follow him. They will only bend the knee to a strong ruler. The gold is to give him that position of strength.”
“And to eliminate his enemies?”
“Indeed.” Lorian drank again before lying back into his cushions, his demeanour more relaxed now that the Nortman arena fighter was gone.
“So the hearts of the Nortlanders can be swayed so easily that a show of strength… or weakness can determine who they choose to rule them? Interesting, don’t you think?”