by Paul Freeman
“Don’t be ridiculous. The cost of building such a fleet would be astronomical,” Duke Gregorn, a man with a bushy black beard and black hair hanging down to his shoulder, replied.
Normand closed his eyes as a row broke out between the nobles, those in favour and those against raising an invasion force. Several dukes took to their feet to press home a point, while others threw curses and threats around the room. Finally the king called the room to order.
“Enough!” his booming voice filled the chamber. “It is not practical to launch an attack on Nortland. The seas around the islands are treacherous. We would likely lose half the fleet on the journey. Then there is the matter of the islands themselves. Each one would have to be taken individually before putting to sea again to move on the next one… and for what? They are not a wealthy nation. There are few natural resources to exploit.”
“But they must be taught a lesson!” Boromond interrupted his monarch. He was quickly silenced with a withering look from the king.
“That lesson you wish to teach would be a most expensive one for my treasury.” The king turned back to the assembly. “This is what I propose to do. I will collect a tithe of ten percent on the annual levy. Each of you shall contribute this sum immediately. With this coin I shall increase the costal defences and form a standing militia to be garrisoned in the north. A professionally trained body of men who will be ready to answer any threat coming from the sea. In the meantime…” The chamber erupted into uproar as the nobles realised that they would now have to pay increased taxes. “Silence!” the king roared. “In the meantime I shall send representation to the king of Nortland and demand payment and the head of this Crawulf.”
“Highness,” Duke Elsward made himself heard. “I would assume I will be exempt from any increased taxes. The Nortmen rampaged through my lands and the cost of paying them to leave has impoverished me.”
Once again the assembled dukes were on their feet, hurling insults at Elsward. The king regarded him coldly. “You think you should be exempt from paying the levy? The land you allowed the Nortmen to burn was granted to your family by the crown… my ancestor to yours,” his voice began low and steadily rose. “The folk you allowed to be taken into slavery were my subjects. Better you had given your life in defence of the realm than to have taken the coward’s road! You are lucky your head is not adorning a spike on the outer wall. It may yet. You, Duke Elsward,” he spat, “have disgraced us all.”
“It was not my fault,” Elsward pleaded. The king suddenly launched up from his seat. He ran around the table, grabbing Elsward by the collar.
“Don’t you dare!” he roared before drawing back his fist and punching the duke repeatedly in the face. Elsward sprawled against the flagstones. When he dragged himself into a seated position his face was bloody. He groaned as his eyes rolled into the back of his head. “Get him out of my sight,” the king instructed two guards who were quickly on the scene. He was dragged from a chamber in stony silence.
Normand paid few visits to court, the distance to Rothberry Castle being too far for social visits, nor was he well known to the king and his courtiers. He had, however, heard enough tales of the king’s temper. Even so, the sudden explosion of violence against Duke Elsward came as somewhat of a surprise. He wiped blood, sprayed from the hapless duke’s broken nose, from his boots as the king marched from the chamber, his guards and lackeys quickly falling in behind him.
“So now we have to pay for that fool’s mess.” Normand turned to the man who spoke, but before he could respond a movement on the balcony above caught his attention. A swirl of skirts disappeared behind the banner as Lady Isabetha swiftly took her leave. Normand shrugged at the complaining duke and hurried out of the chamber.
Once outside in the corridor he caught sight of her hurrying down a wooden staircase and heading for the large wooden doors open to the courtyard and the sunlight beyond.
“My lady,” he called after her as he pushed his way through the crowds that always accompanied a king’s assembly, scribes carrying bundles of scrolls and feather quills, merchants dressed sombrely with respectful expressions as they looked for royal favours, and finely dressed nobles just posing and waiting to be seen. “Isabetha!”
She turned when she heard her name called and waited just beyond wide open, oak doors. Sun bathed her in golden light as her light blue dress matched the clear sky overhead.
“Erik,” she greeted him with a smile. “It is such a rare surprise to see you this far north.”
He ignored her feigned surprise, secure in the knowledge that moments earlier she had been watching him from a concealed balcony. “A pleasant one I hope,” he answered.
“Of course,” she smiled. “I assume you did not travel all this way to see me… although I would be most flattered if it were the case.” Amusement sparkled in her eyes.
“Indeed, it would be reason enough, my lady.”
“But...”
“But sadly, no. A duke must obey a king’s summons.”
“I hope the journey was worthwhile,” she said.
“Three days in the saddle to have my taxes raised… I’ve had better.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Her eyes met his. If he did not know her better he would have been almost convinced that she meant it.
“Share a jug of wine with me,” he said.
“I can think of no pleasanter way to waste an evening,” she answered.
“Ah, so now I’m a waste?”
“Oh, Erik. You’ve always been my favourite waste of time.”
“I will need some time to work out if I’m being flattered or insulted,” he said, a frown creasing his face.
“Isabetha,” the voice of a young woman interrupted their conversation.
“Highness,” Lady Isabetha greeted the newcomer, inclining her head and curtseying respectfully.
A young woman with dark brown hair tied up in curls and waves stood before them. Her low cut gown exposed a long neck and ample bosom of cream-coloured skin. Blue eyes sparkled mischievously as she brazenly looked Normand up and down, lingering on his broad shoulders before her full, pink lips parted in a smile. “And who have we here? How naughty of you to be hiding him from the rest of us, Isabetha.”
“Your Highness, may I introduced Duke Erik Normand of Lenstir.”
“Oh, the mysterious Duke Normand. You do not disappoint, my lord.”
“Duke Normand, this is, Her Majesty Princess Cordalia.”
The king’s youngest daughter, Normand suddenly realised. The last time he saw her, her hair was in pigtails and she was playing with a wooden doll. “It is a pleasure to meet you again, Highness,” he answered. “A very great pleasure to see the woman you have grown into.”
“Oh, he is a feisty one, Isabetha. Don’t you dare keep him to yourself.” Princess Cordalia smiled. “Alas, I cannot tarry. Don’t you dare return to Lenstir without first coming to visit me.” As suddenly as she arrived she’d gone.
“She seems… nice,” Normand said, turning his attention back to Isabetha.
“She’d eat you raw.” She laughed. “And then the king would feed your balls to his hounds.” She slid her arm into the loop of his elbow then. “Come on. Didn’t you promise me a jug of wine?”
They made it through half the jug before ending up on Isabetha’s feather-filled mattress. Normand lay on top of her, driving into her as she arched her back to meet his thrusts. He held her wrists over her head as she wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him on with moans of pleasure. All the while it was not the face of Lady Isabetha he saw beneath him, but the mischievous eyes of Princess Cordalia. Even as Isabetha sunk her teeth into his shoulder he was picturing the track of freckles across the princess’s nose, her creamy skin soft and tight over her collarbone. Isabetha screamed as she reached a climax. Normand heard Cordalia’s voice as he spilled his seed into the writhing Isabetha. He rolled off her then and both of them lay on their backs, gulping in air.
“Oh, Erik, you really m
ust visit Rothberry more often.”
Normand rolled off the bed and walked naked to a table by the window. He poured wine from the unfinished jug into a goblet and drained it in one go, before refilling. “I was just having similar thoughts,” he said.
“When do you leave for Lenstir?”
“Right away.” He finished the second cup.
“So soon?”
Normand fingered the amulet at his throat, gifted to him by Djangra Roe, as a ward against the dream-witch. “That fool of a mage I have in my employ is convinced the mountains are filled with hidden treasure, the hoard of a god, no less. I must return before he pulls my new city and those mountains down.”
“Djangra Roe?”
“Yes, do you know him?”
“We’ve met. You should listen to him. He is a most resourceful and insightful man.”
Normand did not quite know what to make of that… but then again, he never quite knew what to make of Lady Isabetha. She was ever the enigma, a beautiful one, and a most dangerous one. “I’ll bear that in mind,” he said as he scooped his clothes up from the floor and began pulling on his breeches.
Isabetha called to him as he was about to leave her chambers. “Princesses are not meant for minor dukes, Erik. I would not like to see your head adorning a spike above the castle entrance.”
Normand didn’t answer and closed the heavy wooden door behind him.
Tomas: Temple ruins, wild lands of Alka-Roha
Tomas led the small group of riders towards the temple. When they saw it first, it was little more than a dark shadow in the distance, a smudge against the clear blue sky. “There! There is your temple,” Ivannia shouted excitedly. They approached the ruin in silence, weary from the long journey over the hard, parched land, wary of what they might encounter, the least of which being a further attack from bandits.
“This is the place we seek?” Horace asked, incredulity and scorn lacing his words.
Tomas took in the crumbling walls and collapsed buildings within those walls, any building material other than stone long since rotted away. As he approached the area that would have once been the main gate, his horse shied, forcing him to pull hard on the reins. The animal’s unease spread quickly to the other mounts and they too began to struggle with their riders. Tomas dismounted and handed the reins to Horace.
“This is a cursed place. Even the animals know better,” Ivannia spat.
Aliss sat on top of her mount in stony silence, all colour drained from her complexion. She’d spoken little since the fight with the bandits, only to answer direct questions, and then with single words or nods. To Tomas it almost felt as if she were draining away, even though she had reassured him of her health countless times.
“There’s no one hiding here,” Horace said, also dismounting and passing the reins of both his and Tomas’s horse to Horald.
“Only ghosts,” Ivannia said.
“We can leave here and return to Djangra Roe and tell him we failed if you wish,” Tomas answered the tracker.
Horace spat into the hard-baked earth, clearly weighing up the options, balancing which he feared most, mage or the temple ghosts. “This place has a queer feel to it,” he said.
“It is the magic used to conceal what is really here,” Aliss spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Magic…” Horace said and spat again.
“Let me go now. I have brought you where you asked,” Ivannia said.
“No, she will bring more bandits and attack us while we sleep,” Horace said.
“You want to drag her with us all the way back to the Duchies?” Tomas asked.
“No. She’s right about one thing. She’s done what we asked of her. She is no longer of any use to us,” Horace answered. “Kill her.”
Ronwald, who was closest to her, drew his sword.
“No, wait!” Tomas cried, but too late. Ivannia’s eyes suddenly opened wide in surprise as Ronwald’s sword exited through her chest. “What have you done? You bloodthirsty curs!” He ran to catch her as she toppled from her horse, but even as she fell into his arms he could see that she was dead.
“It’s better this way.” Horace shrugged.
“Murder is the better way?” the blacksmith said, fighting to control the emotion in his voice.
“She would have left our bodies in the desert after robbing us and not given it a second thought. Do not act the child, blacksmith,” Horace answered before turning towards the ruined temple.
Tomas felt his rage build inside him, the flames of anger fanned to white hot. His hand dropped to his sword.
“No, Tomas. Horace is right. We could not let her go.” He heard Aliss’ words in his mind, and then a calming wave covering him like a blanket. He shrugged off the emotion and turned to his woman, who was still sitting on her horse, her lips not moving.
“You’re putting words and thoughts in my mind now,” he accused. “Who are you?” he spat when she didn’t answer. Her eyes slid away from his accusing glare and dropped to the earth. He loosened his sword in its sheath then and followed Horace into the temple.
Broken columns and pillars littered the courtyard, giving the impression of what once may have been a very grand place. A statue of a woman, its nose chipped away and one arm missing, caught Tomas’s eye. “The goddess Eor,” Aliss said, coming up behind him.
“You’re speaking to me now… with actual words,” he shot back.
“I’m sorry, Tomas. My ability to control magic is growing. I don’t know where this power is coming from, or how I’m supposed to use it. Most of the time I don’t even know what I’ve done, or how I did it. I feel so tired,” she said.
“When you two are quite finished whispering love poems to one another…” Horace called out. Tomas looked over to where the three Duke’s men stood waiting. A dark chasm beckoned behind them, the entrance to the only building still standing. The door was long since gone, pillars at either side chipped and broken. A shiver ran down his spine as he looked into the dark portal of gloom.
“You say magic is being used to cloak what is really here,” Tomas said. Aliss nodded in response. “So what I’m looking at is not real?”
Aliss shrugged. “I don’t know anymore. I thought I saw something in the scrying bowl, a shifting image of what we see now and a temple in perfect repair. I was sure I was seeing through a magical screen… but now we are here it looks real enough.”
Tomas frowned. “If you are right then there are most likely eyes upon us right now.” He glanced at the three men, waiting, weapons in hand, and then to the body of the girl lying just beyond the enclosing wall. “We can leave here now. We don’t have to do this.”
Aliss’ back stiffened; her eyes became more alert. “She knows we’re here,” she said.
“So this is the place?”
She nodded and pointed towards the dark doorway. “In there.” Tomas’s eyes followed to where she was pointing, his feeling of unease growing even stronger. “When we leave this place life will have changed,” she said, turning her grey shifting eyes on him.
He looked into the swirling clouds gathered there. “Life has already changed.” He drew his sword then and joined Duke Normand’s warriors.
Once he stepped into the darkness he felt as if a curtain had been drawn. No longer was the temple an ancient, dusty ruin. A long stone-flagged passageway yawned before him. Flickering torches bathed the corridor in an orange glow. The walls were covered in drawings depicting images of animals and people supplicating to a female deity. The two warriors, Ronwald and Horald, led the way, placing each step cautiously in front of the next.
“How is this even possible?” Tomas whispered, as he gawked in awe at the artwork illuminated by the glowing torches.
“Magic,” Aliss answered back.
“How can I tell what is real and what his not?”
“Trust nothing,” she said.
Even though the passageway was clearly still in use Tomas could detect an underlying mustiness
to the place—the thought of a tomb springing an unwelcome image to mind.
“The passage widens,” Horald said.
Up ahead, the corridor widened into a circular chamber, at its centre a large statue, not unlike the one Tomas had seen outside, only this one was not in disrepair. With sapphires for eyes and ringlets of gold through its hair, the idol was worth a fortune. Other precious stones were used as decorative buttons on her carved garments. Horace could not contain himself and ran to the base of the statue, where he immediately began prying loose a ruby decorating the goddess’s foot.
“This place is more crypt than temple,” Horald voiced Tomas’s concern. The blacksmith and the two warriors circled the statue seeking another passageway or door.
“Look at the walls,” Aliss said, her words coming out in a whispered croak.
The chamber was a circle only broken by the passage they had entered by. The walls, illuminated by the flickering glow of torches, were covered from floor to high ceiling with a painting of a vast mountain range. The closer Tomas inspected the mural the more detailed he realised it was.
“Mountains,” Aliss said.
“There is some script here,” Horald said from the far side of the chamber, forcing Tomas to peer around the statue. “The lettering is in gold.”
“Gold?” Horace looked up from his excavation work.
“What does it say?” Tomas asked.
“I cannot tell. It is in no language I know how to read,” the man-at-arms answered.
“The return of the Dragon Lord shall herald the dawn of a new era for man. Only when the world is plunged into darkness will the light of Eor shine bright again.” A female voice intoned. Tomas whirled around. Standing just beyond him, between he and Aliss was a woman, who could only be Elandrial High Priestess of Eor. ‘Only the purifying flames of the dragon can cleanse the world and bring about a new beginning,” she continued. Tomas raised his sword two-handed before him. The three warriors formed a semi-circle behind him, all with their weapons drawn. “When the Dragon Lord ignites the fire, he shall call forth the servants of Eor, summon them even from death to purge the world.”