by Paul Freeman
“His majesty,” Normand spat, making the title sound like an insult, “has called a council of nobles. He has requested all title holders present themselves by a new phase of the moon.”
“Less than two weeks away,” Djangra said. “Does he say why?”
“Yes.” Normand read through the royal message. “That old fool Elsward has had Nortmen overrun his duchy. The king is calling all dukes to a council of war to plan a strategy to protect the realm. In other words he’s looking for gold and men from each of us.”
“But surely, the north coast is constantly harassed by raids from the Pirate Isles. This is nothing new.”
Normand shrugged. “The king is calling it the greatest threat to the Duchies since his reign began. It would seem that this was more than the normal raid on a fishing village to snatch a few slaves and loot a few monasteries.”
“Will you go?” Djangra asked.
“I have no choice. Doubtless the king merely wishes to puff out his chest and scrape more taxes from already over burdened nobles.”
“With your leave, I would remain here to continue my research.”
Normand made an anxious face. “I am not altogether happy with so much distance between us, while the dream-witch yet roams free.”
Djangra quickly rummaged inside his tunic and pulled out a small silver chain. He held it up for the duke’s inspection. At one end dangled a small locket, a closer look and Normand could see the shape of a dragon embossed on the silver disc. The mage then pulled it open, two halves connected by a hinge. “I require a drop of your blood, my lord,” he said, holding out the locket.
Normand hesitated as he inspected the proffered locket and chain. “You wish me to bleed into this?” His iron glare—often enough to make men tremble—fixed on the mage.
“Yes, my lord. It is a ward. It will keep your dreams… your own,” he answered without flinching.
The duke drew a dagger from his belt and dragged it across the palm of his hand, ignoring the stinging pain he held up his hand and allowed his blood to drip into the locket. “Do not play me for a fool. I am not a patient man.”
“No, my lord,” Djangra answered, as he snapped the two halves together, before handing the locket and chain to the duke. “Wear it about your neck at all time. It will protect you from any attempts by Elandrial to enter your dreams.”
Normand put the chain around his neck and fastened the clasp, his hand still dripping blood.
One week later: on a cold damp morning, Normand was greeted at the main gates of the citadel by Djangra. “What’s all this?” the mage asked, surveying a line of mounted warriors lined up behind the duke. All wore blood red cloaks over their shoulders and identical helmets adorned with white horsehair plumes.
Normand had not seen the mage in the week since he had given him the locket. He was curious to know what news Djangra had about Eor and the mythical treasure he was convinced was hidden somewhere in the mountains, maybe even in the citadel. It would have to wait until he returned from the king’s council. “One must look one’s best for the king.”
Normand led his Dragon Knights, two score of the best fighting men in his army, through the gates of The Thieves Citadel, their red cloaks billowing behind them.
Tomas: The wild lands beyond Alka-Roha
Tomas packed all of their gear—which didn’t amount to much—threw it over his shoulder and followed Aliss down the stairs. The common room of the inn was shrouded in darkness, save for a single wax candle held by the innkeeper as he waited for them to leave. It was the happiest Tomas had seen him since they arrived. Harbouring armed foreigners under his roof evidently made him nervous. The duke’s three men waited on top of their mounts, as did Ivannia, courtesan and guide. All four appeared spectral in the pooled moonlight, Aliss even more so. She looked pale, sickly even, yet her spirits seemed bright enough.
Ivannia had told them it would take two days at a steady pace to reach the temple. Tomas hoped fervently that they would find the dream-witch there, and would be done with this dangerous quest once and for all. As they set out on their trek, leaving the red walls of Alka-Roha behind, the sun bled crimson light into the horizon, turning the barren landscape into a bed of fiery waste.
Aliss smiled when she caught Tomas’s eye. “It’s beautiful,” she said.
“Aye, it has a certain charm, for a bleak wasteland,” he answered. She shook her head at his cynical attitude, but kept on smiling regardless.
The heat of the day quickly overwhelmed the cool morning as the sun rose steadily into an azure sky. Tomas cast his mind to the valley and the village of Woodvale where autumn would be turning the woods around the village into a magical kingdom of orange, yellow and plum leaves, where cool breezes would carry the musky perfume of the forest to his workshop. There would be a chill in the air most mornings, with a mist covering the fields and wrapping gossamer strands around the spindly branches of trees. He snuck a glance at his woman then, her straight hair the colour of a fresh snowfall, where once it had been like a field of wheat in summertime, her constantly shifting, storm cloud eyes a dark reminder of events past. The dark magic used by the old witch Haera had changed her physically, he could see that, but how much had she changed on the inside. It was her right to know what Haera had done… what he had agreed to; that dark, evil deed; using one life to save another. Yet, how could he tell her?
They took a break, shortly after the sun reached its highest point in the sky, at a small watering hole, where tall skinny trees, capped with long green leaves, towered over them. Tomas was glad of the rest even if the trees offered little shade from the heat of the burning sun. The water at least was cool and fresh. They refilled their waterskins and splashed water onto the backs of their necks and heads, before passing around loaves of flat bread they had bought from the innkeeper before leaving.
Horace sat down beside Ivannia leering at her as he did so. When she got up to sit elsewhere he made to follow until Aliss intervened. “Leave her be.” The tracker shot her a dark look but stayed where he was.
“I wish for my payment now,” Ivannia blurted out.
“No,” Horace said. “Pay her now and the whore will sneak away at the first opportunity.”
Tomas watched each of them in turn, sensing something was going on, but not knowing what it was. He could see by her eyes that Aliss was thinking the same. “Why do you wish to be paid now?” she asked the courtesan.
“I do not trust you to pay me once I’ve shown you the way. That one least of all.” She nodded in the direction of the tracker.
“And what if you are lying and know of no such temple?” Aliss met the dark eyes of Ivannia without flinching. “What if you take our gold and abandon us somewhere in the desert?”
“I do not lie!” she spat. “Pay me now or I will return to Alka-Roha and you can wander out here until the skin falls off your bones.”
Horace stood up, sliding his dagger from its sheath on his belt. Tomas stepped between them. “Give her half,” he said.
“Don’t be a fool,” Horace snapped.
“It is the duke’s coin, what do you care? Give her half.”
Horald and Ronwald were both on their feet now, their meal forgotten. Ivannia stared defiantly at the tracker and held out her hand.
“If she runs…”
“Just give her some coin, and let’s be done with it,” Horald said.
Horace pulled out a small purse of coins and tossed out five silver coins.
“Gold, I was told I would be paid gold.” The tracker fished out three gold crowns and slapped them into her hand. The coins quickly disappeared into her tunic. “Hey,” she called after him as he began to walk away. When he turned she waggled her little finger at him.
Horald and Ronwald both guffawed. “Well, she should know,” Horald said and laughed some more.
With the tension eased they all returned to their meal, Ivannia sitting beside Aliss. “Have you always lived in Alka-Roha?” she asked.
&
nbsp; “No, not always. My village lies to the south, but I have lived in the Red City since I was a girl.”
“Why did you leave your family?”
“I was left with little choice. There were too many mouths to feed and not enough food. My father took me to Alka-Roha. He exchanged me for enough coin to feed the rest of them for another year.”
“Your father sold you to the brothel?” Aliss failed to conceal the shock from her face. Ivannia simply nodded before tearing a chunk of bread and stuffing it into her mouth.
“I…” she began.
“I do not need your sympathy,” Ivannia cut her off. Aliss simply nodded and pursued the issue no further.
Shortly before nightfall, when the dying sun bled a crimson trail into the sky, they passed through a small village of squat, whitewashed huts. Women ushered small children indoors as the armed strangers rode through the town, their horses kicking up dust and leaving a billowing cloud in their wake. Men eyed them suspiciously, but none approached them or barred their way, nor were they given invitation or welcome to stay.
“Friendly bunch,” Horald commented as they rode the length of the main street.
“They are frightened of strangers. Especially strangers with weapons. They are usually bandits and only come into the villages to rob what little they have,” Ivannia quickly answered.
“Just like home then,” the man-at-arms answered, grinning.
“We should stop here for the night, it will be dark soon,” Tomas said.
“No,” Ivannia answered. “We are not welcome here. I know a place where we can camp for the night. It is not far.”
Tomas’s gaze found hers, her dark eyes unreadable. “Don’t they have an inn? Or even a stable we could bed down in?”
“Leave it be,” Aliss interjected. “We will go with Ivannia.”
Their guide led on without another word and soon the town disappeared into dust. She led them towards a small group of hills. Visibility became very poor as light drained from the sky. Riding in the dark over foreign terrain was a treacherous thing to do, and Tomas was becoming anxious they stop for the night. As the hills loomed closer, he could just make out an opening between them. Ivannia suddenly kicked her horse towards the gap, quickly leaving the rest behind.
“What’s that fool of a girl doing? She’ll break hers and her horse’s neck,” Horace spat, his contempt clear in his voice.
“Follow her, or we’ll lose her in the dark,” Aliss said and urged her horse after Ivannia’s.
“No, wait!” Tomas called her back. He loosened his sword in its scabbard. Aliss arched her eyebrows. “This doesn’t feel right,” he answered her unspoken question. Even as he spoke dark shapes emerged from between the hills.
“Riders!” Ronwald barked, drawing his sword, the steel glinting in the receding light.
Tomas could make out a dozen or so riders coming at them fast. “Horace, get Aliss to safety,” he commanded the weasel-faced tracker.
“No,” Aliss said defiantly. “There’s no time.”
Within moments the riders were upon them, the robes they wore as protection from the sun billowed as they rode. They all bore weapons – scimitars, spears.
“Bandits,” Tomas snarled. Behind him Horace had drawn his bow and nocked an arrow. Horald and Ronwald waited with swords drawn. “Aim for the one at the head,” he instructed the tracker. Horace took aim and fired. The arrow looped into the air, missing his intended target, but finding a mark in one of the riders behind. A dark shape was punched from a horse, rolled in the dust and was quickly left behind.
The three swordsmen kicked their mounts into action and went to meet the charge head-on. Tomas swung his sword at the first bandit as his momentum took him through the group. The sound of hoof beats on the hard ground was quickly replaced by the noise of clashing steel and the screams of men dying. The maelstrom of mounted fighting men quickly became a swirling mass of dust. Horses screamed in protest as their riders fought to control them and swing their weapons at the same time. Tomas stabbed out at a dark-robed assailant, even as others lashed at him. A scimitar flashed by his head, the man behind it disappeared into the storm, dragged from his horse by Ronwald. He saw Horald gritting his teeth as he brought his sword down onto the head of a bandit. An arrow thumped a rider in the chest and he slumped onto his horse’s neck before falling off altogether. Still there were too many.
Then he saw Aliss. She was at the edge of the melee, her eyes blazing as she made circular motions with her hands. He parried a spear thrust and swung at the neck of the spearman. A black cloud began to form in the palm of her hand. He could see her lips moving as she silently worded some incantation. The dark cloud grew to the size of a head, and she thrust it from her. A swirling mass of darkness enveloped the head of the lead bandit, cutting off his scream, energy crackled in tiny flashes, dancing from the first rider to men either side of him. All three suddenly burst into flames.
Tomas parried a half-hearted blow from an opponent before the man turned and fled, along with those brigands left alive. What was left of the three burning men lay still, their remains charred husks. He leapt from his horse, as Aliss dropped to her knees, and ran to catch her before she toppled over.
“Aliss… what did you do?” He felt her weight falling into his arms. Her eyes were closed, and when she opened them he could see the swirling grey clouds pulsing with energy.
“I drew heat from the air and below the surface of the ground and directed it towards those men,” she answered.
“But how?” Tomas’s voice trembled.
“I just knew,” she answered quietly.
“Witch!” a female voice cried in accusation. Horace dragged Ivannia by her long dark hair and pushed her to the ground. “Sorceress!” she spat as she looked in the direction of the three scorched corpses. “You killed my brother with witchcraft.” She began to sob then.
Horace unsympathetically shoved his hand into her tunic and retrieved the coins he had earlier given her. His rummaging took longer than was necessary, but Tomas was in no mood to chastise him for tormenting the woman who had just betrayed them.
“You led us here to be ambushed,” he said.
With the aid of Tomas’s arm, Aliss pulled herself to her feet. She walked slowly towards the woman, who would have backed away if not for Horace’s hold on her. “Do you even know where the temple is?”
Ivannia nodded in answer, tears streaming down her face, her lip trembling in fear. “Don’t burn me,” she pleaded.
Horace leered and put his hand inside her tunic again. Ivannia didn’t even notice, she was so intent on Aliss.
“Leave her be,” Aliss said to Horace. The tracker shot her a defiant look but pushed the woman away and joined the other men. She then turned her full attention back to Ivannia. The courtesan flinched away from the hard gaze of Aliss. “You will take us to the temple. No more tricks.”
“And you will let me live?”
“I don’t know. Maybe,” Aliss answered.
Tomas turned away from the scene, no longer able to watch the terrified harlot or the hard, pitiless look on his woman’s face, nor the grey swirling eyes, flecked with tiny silver bolts, set so coldly on Ivannia. This journey had changed her beyond all recognition, he thought. The magic wrought by Haera, in the Great Wood, to bring her back from the threshold of death, had changed her. What has become of his Aliss? he wondered. Will she ever return?
Lady Rosinnio: Wind Isle
Rosinnio stood on the quayside, with what seemed like the entire population of Wind Isle, or at least its main town: Osfeld… her home. The people had turned out to greet the return of their jarl, she was there to welcome home her husband. Cheers and cries of greeting rang out as the flotilla of longboats manoeuvred into harbour. She remembered her own arrival, what seemed a lifetime ago, on board one of her father’s ponderous sailing ships, nothing like the sleek longboats of the Nortmen. Beside her was Crawulf’s counsellor, Brandlor, and as always, her shadow, the gia
nt warrior Rothgar.
“Many ships return, and riding low in the water. A good sign they are full of treasure,” Brandlor said.
To the outside world, the islands of Nortland were known as the Pirate Isles, inhabited by fierce sea raiders. Rosinnio had heard many tales, both as a child and a grown woman, of the horrific deeds perpetrated by these pirates all along coastal towns, even sailing their sleek longboats as far as the empire, to snatch and grab what they could before disappearing into the mist. The irony that she was now cheering home one such raid was not lost on her. She spotted Crawulf in the lead ship, one hand resting on the serpent-head prow. Even from distance he looks relaxed, she thought. His eyes searched the crowd until he spotted her, then he waved. She raised her hand in greeting as a horde of butterflies colonised her insides. She knew what would be expected of her, as a wife, later that night. It was a duty she accepted, perhaps not willingly, but she would perform and play the role the gods fated for her. Perhaps it would not be so bad if he drank a little less… a lot less, but she knew there was a feast planned and the hall would be awash with Nortmen quaffing ale, wine and honey mead. Their jarl would be a willing leader in the festivities.
Her father had sent her north, to the Pirate Isles, to become the wife of a Nortman. As a princess it was her duty to obey her emperor and accept her betrothal to whomever he deigned. Even so, the prospect of life on the damp and misty isles of Nortland had terrified her, even more the thought of being wed to one and living among them. They were still a mystery to her, but she would like to think she had grown up a lot in her short time on Wind Isle. She had accepted her fate with as much grace as she could muster and was determined to make the most of what she had been fated with. Did she miss the feel of warm sunshine on her face? Or inhaling the heady aroma of jasmine in the night air? Of course. Did she still cry herself to sleep every night at the prospect of never seeing her homeland again? Yes and most likely would for a very long time. The sound of gulls shrieking in the air as they sought to steal an easy meal from a fishing boat, or the feel of damp mist on her skin every time she stepped outside would never compare with the lush and colourful gardens of her father’s palace. Yet, for all their wild ways, and harsh guttural language, the people of Nortland had an honesty about them. She may not understand it, or them, but if they smiled they were happy, if they scowled they were angry. Simple, honest folk… who robbed and slaughtered their way through life. I will never understand them. She smiled then.