The Wolf and the Sorceress

by Brian Pemberton

  “Because I’m in charge, and I have given an order,” barked the captain.

  “We should draw straws,” said the man, stubbornly, “that is the fairest way. No one ever knocks on His door.”

  Unnoticed by the soldiers, who were arguing too vehemently to hear anything but their own voices, Tobyn had silently made his way up the stone steps and was now standing behind them.

  “Why captain, how nice of you and your men to visit me in my quarters,” he said sweetly. “Would you like to come down, perhaps we could break open a bottle of wine?” “Ah! Err, no. That won’t be necessary,” said the captain, flustered that the magician had crept up behind them. “We urgently need your advice, my Lord,” the captain hurried on. “The king has been poisoned.”

  “Poisoned?” Tobyn roared, raising his voice and alarming the soldiers further. “Who would dare do such a thing? Everyone loved the man. Who would want to poison him?” “Yes sir, he was sir, and we don’t know, sir. As he slumped into his chair, smoke poured from his mouth and blood trickled from his ears and eyes. It’s a terrible sight, most of the women at the banquet fainted, even the men look a bit green.”

  “Then lead on captain, quickly. Let me see if I can do anything before it’s too late,” Tobyn said, fighting down the smile that would have given him away.

  Tobyn strode into the banqueting room, dark blue robes flowing in his wake. The place was in chaos, born of panic and fear. Women were sprawled on the floor, attended by their men, who were trying to overcome their own horror and regain some kind of control. The younger boy prince was perched on a chair, staring sightlessly at his father’s body. The elder boy turned at the master sorcerer’s approach and with a venomous glare in his eyes stood aside to let Tobyn pass. The king’s body had been pulled upright in his throne and a sickly yellow sweet-smelling liquid had trickled down his chin to congeal on his tabard. The body’s orifices were still smouldering from the poison and his skin was too hot to touch. The heat had even shrivelled his eyeballs, which had sunk into his head.

  Above the cacophony of screams, shouts and groans issuing from the crowd in the banqueting hall, Tobyn raised his voice to a shout to be heard. “Can anyone here tell me exactly what happened?” he asked.

  A male servant nervously stepped forward, to stand before Tobyn, wringing his hands, and shaking even more than when the king had died. “I poured the wine into his goblet, sir, then after the king had given a toast and raised it to his mouth, he collapsed, and, and.…” he faltered to a stop, staring wide-eyed at the still smoking body.

  Tobyn lifted the goblet to his nose and smelled the contents. The sweet smell of the poison was still strong. Replacing the goblet, he then picked up the carafe containing the wine and wafted that under his nose.

  “The poison was obviously in the king’s goblet, for this carafe shows no trace of it. I want this room sealed; no-one is to leave the castle until every room in the palace has been searched for proof of it.”

  The soldiers immediately took up position to stand guard at either side of the vast wooden doors, preventing anyone from exiting the hall.

  The search had taken all night. Tobyn trudged round with the troop of soldiers as they went into each room. Three wings had now been searched and nothing found. For Tobyn, it was an extreme annoyance that the captain of the guard had not ordered his men into the wing housing the two princes and other high ranking officials first. As the soldiers were about to pass a doorway without entering, Tobyn queried, “Why not that room?”

  “Why, my lord, this room belongs to the eldest prince, surely you cannot suspect him of murdering his father?”

  “You will search every room,” insisted Tobyn, “even my quarters are not above suspicion.”

  The man sucked in his breath and paled visibly at the thought of searching the sorcerer’s quarters, it was the only area in the whole castle that was off limits. Under normal circumstances, even the cleaning staff stayed away, obvious by the dusty cobwebs draped over the stairwell and along the ceilings. Some of the webs had been there since Tobyn had taken up residence, and he made sure the owners never went hungry.

  Entering the prince’s room, they noted how tidy everything was, clothes folded and neatly placed in chests, soiled linen piled into a corner ready for collection. They began sifting through the shelves of books and looking in, under and behind every possible hiding place, while Tobyn waited patiently in the corridor. By the time they had finished, the room could not have been more disturbed if a herd of cattle had been driven through it. As one of the men pulled aside a scroll of parchment, a glass phial rolled towards him, he caught it before it fell, and held it as though it were a viper in his hand.

  “My lord, this was on the shelf. Do you think it’s…?”

  Tobyn took the phial and removed the cork stopper; a familiar sweet-smelling odour filled the room.

  “This is the same substance that killed the king. I order you to arrest Prince Parlan, the charge is murder,” Tobyn instructed them coldly.

  Happy to be rid of the poison, knowing what it did to the king, the captain ordered his men back to the banqueting hall. The heavy wooden doors slammed back against the wall, startling everyone inside, and the men rushed into the room and grabbed Parlan.

  The captain said, loudly, for everyone present to hear, “I arrest you, Prince Parlan, for the wilful murder of your father, the king. The evidence was found in your room, a phial of poison hidden behind a scroll on a bookshelf.”

  For a moment Parlan stood numb with disbelief, but before he could remonstrate with the guards, he was being hauled out of the room, under the horrified gaze of his father’s guests.

  “I am innocent,” he cried, struggling against the iron grip of the soldiers, “I am no murderer, I loved my father.”

  Everyone in the room breathed a relieved sigh as the soldiers dragged the prince away, each of them grateful they had not been accused. It didn’t matter to them that it was the heir to the throne who had been blamed and was being taken to the East Wing, where crumbling, damp stone steps led to the depths of the castle. Rough hands threw the prince into a cell and slammed the door shut behind him. Parlan fell in a heap onto a filthy straw-lined stone floor, which obviously hadn’t been cleaned since its last occupant. It stank of urine, vomit and worse. Parlan scrambled to his feet and looked about him. Still dazed from his arrest and subsequent rough treatment, he went to the door and looked through the small grille. The passageway beyond was still, quiet and empty. He removed his jacket, thankful to be rid of the smell. Sitting on the hard wooden cot, tears pricked his eyes. Not only had someone killed his beloved father, but they had also manufactured evidence that pointed to him being the murderer. He badly needed help, but whom could he ask? There was no one he could trust. Tobyn would undoubtedly forbid everyone to visit his cell, so all he could do was wait until the trial, if he was allowed one.

  For three days he saw no one, apart from the guard who put his food through the grille in the door. The man never spoke and showed nothing but contempt for his prisoner. The following day he was brought a pitcher of water and a bowl, and told to wash, as he was to be taken before the Magistrate. Parlan washed as best he could, but as he was led into the courtroom, he could still smell the stench of the cell on his body.

  While the grim-faced Magistrate listened to the evidence, Tobyn stood to one side; a malevolent smile creased his thin lips beneath the hooded robe. A woman brought before the bench, told the court that a young lad had bought rat poison from her, and when shown the phial, said it was identical to the one she had sold; she added that the lad had greatly resembled the one accused. A manservant was summoned next, and he gave evidence that he had often heard the king arguing with his son. Parlan stood, lost for words, at the lies being told in the courtroom under the guise of truth.

  “I have often had words with my father,” he admitted in defence, “but they were never venomous. There can be no one here who has never had heated words with their pare
nts, but that does not mean that they would kill them, any more than I would kill my father. I have never met the woman who claims I bought poison from her, she lies and accuses me of a crime I did not commit.”

  But his words went unheeded in the noise. The mob gathered outside had already started chanting for his execution. The Magistrate addressed the Jury, asking them to consider their verdict.

  Agonising moments seemed like a lifetime. Parlan stood white-faced as the men before him debated the evidence, his life resting in their hands. Finally, one of the men stepped forward and faced the Magistrate.

  “My Lord Magistrate, we are all agreed that the prisoner is guilty of poisoning his father, the king.”

  “Thank you, you may sit down,” said the Magistrate.

  From beneath the bench the Magistrate took a square of black cloth, and placing it upon his head, addressed the accused gravely. “Considering the evidence given against you and the phial of poison found in your quarters, I have no option but to find you guilty and sentence you to death.”

  Cheering erupted in the packed courtroom, and carried on a wave of sound to the crowd waiting outside. “Guilty, guilty, guilty…” Parlan’s legs trembled with fear, the fetters round his wrists and ankles as heavy as lead weights, but with all the strength he could muster, he pulled himself upright. He was innocent of the charges and would die, if that must be, proclaiming his innocence. He would not beg forgiveness for a crime he had not committed.

  The Magistrate called for order, adding that if the noise did not abate, some additional heads would line the castle spikes. There was an immediate hush, allowing the Magistrate to continue with his solemn duty.

  “A crime against the Realm demands the sentence of death, whereby the head is severed from the body and placed upon the spike over the main gates, thus acting as a deterrent to others. Being of Royal birth holds no favour for your fate; your body will be removed from the block and buried in an unmarked grave.” Pointing a bony finger at Parlan, the Magistrate instructed the guards. “Take the prisoner away.” A soldier roughly grasped each arm, and Parlan was ushered towards the doorway leading to the corridor. As he passed between the lines of people, some spat at him, some lashed out at him. Parlan tried not to flinch from the blows, but some of the heavy punches almost knocked him down. He knew who was responsible for his father’s death, and also that of his mother, but now, as then, he could not prove it. He knew, in his heart that Tobyn himself had somehow engineered her fall down the stone stairs of the Great Hall, if not by his own hand then one of his henchmen had done the deed. He swore to himself that if he ever managed to escape the prison, he would kill the sorcerer, even if it meant forfeiting his own life.

  During the trial, if it could be dignified by such a name, a number of people hadn’t cheered when the death sentence had been passed; one of them was Tyler Marten, the son of the head stableman. He and the prince were the same age, seventeen summers, and although their stations in life were leagues apart, they had become the best of friends. When Tyler was nearly six summers of age, the young prince had wandered into the stables, alone. As Tyler struggled to pull a bale of hay towards the mangers, the lad with Royal blood in his veins rushed forward to help him. For the rest of that day he remained at Tyler’s side, begging to be shown how to care for the horses. Tyler’s father was anxious for the young prince to be away from under foot, firstly because of who he was, and secondly, a stable full of horses is a dangerous place for a youngster without experience. The young prince had gazed up at Tyler, pleadingly; hoping his new friend would intervene on his behalf.

  Tyler had asked his father if he could stay, promising that he would allow him to come to no harm, and over the course of their growing up, they became the best of friends. They had, together, explored the castle from top to bottom, playing the kind of games that most children play. They had even lifted a grating in one of the lower corridors, in doing so they covered themselves with filth from the grime-covered walls. Both had paid for that incident; the king had punished Parlan by not allowing him to visit the stables for a week, and Tyler’s father had clipped his son round the ear and made him work without any leisure time. The incident was soon forgotten and when the time came for Parlan to be tutored, the king had allowed Tyler to attend school alongside his son. Although they both found the lessons hard at times, they competed for the best results. Tyler knew that his best friend would not and could not have killed the king, and soon discovered that he was not alone in his opinion. But Tobyn had forbidden everyone to speak about the crime. Should they be overheard discussing the matter, the penalty would be death by hanging. Their head would then be displayed upon one of the spikes above the main gates of the castle. The now king-in-waiting, Prince Kaleb reinforced this order. The days following the old king’s death had been harsh; Tobyn now had the younger prince completely under his control. Even the Council could not overrule the decisions the Princeling made, Tobyn saw to that.

  The execution had been set for three days hence. Kaleb was now able to avenge himself for being second born. He had always resented Parlan’s ability to be friends with everyone he met, and for these people to always go out of their way to help him. Even the stable kid was his friend, although he could never understand why his brother would want to be friends with someone who cleaned up horse dung. He found that Parlan would spend hours in the boy’s company, and that they were always playing games and laughing together. They also excluded him from their games leaving him to play alone. But more than that, it would be Parlan who would inherit the kingdom when their father died. He hated him and on every occasion he could, he ratted on Parlan if he thought it would earn him favour with his father. When this sorcerer came to the castle, Kaleb realised that there was more to the man than just performing tricks and spells, here was the opportunity he had been waiting for: to rightfully take what he believed was his, the position of king. At every chance he could, Kaleb walked the lonely corridors that led to the lower depths of the castle where Tobyn had his quarters. He had never been a well-child, always ill with a cough or cold or runny nose. Tobyn had, from the start, helped him by giving him potions that made him feel well. So when the Master Magician started telling Kaleb how great a king he could become, Kaleb was in awe of the man. “You have the qualities of leadership,” Tobyn told the youngster, “not like the namby-pamby ways of your brother. With you on the throne I foresee greatness.” Kaleb pondered these words and the more he thought about them, the deeper the hatred became between his brother and himself. He would watch Parlan closely, and every chance he had, he would try and hurt him. One day, before they went riding, he loosened the straps holding the saddle on Parlan’s horse, but luckily Parlan was not riding fast when the saddle slipped, and he fell without too much injury. The stable master’s son was blamed, and it was only Parlan’s intervention that stopped Tyler from being severely punished.

  “This is what I have been born and bred for, to rule,” he said, quietly to himself, placing booted feet upon the table. Relishing these new duties, and with his father’s sorcerer to advise him in what needed to be done, how could he fail?

  Tyler had lingered in the corridor, unable to get closer to his friend during the trial. The prince had many friends in the castle, but none were allowed to speak in his defence. Afterwards, as the young heir to the throne was being led away in chains, the crowd was threatened with the rope should they question the magistrate’s authority. With a determined stride, Tyler made his way towards the servants’ quarters, hoping there would be others who felt the same way as he did about this injustice. At a secret meeting, Tyler addressed the men and women before him.

  “We do not have long to carry out a rescue,” he said, “Parlan’s execution has been set for the day after tomorrow.” “If we help free a man from the dungeons, we will be hunted down like dogs. Where will we go if we do succeed in freeing him?” The man looked around him, scared, noting several other nodding heads in the room. “It is a wonder that soldie
rs are not arresting us now for even being here. Tobyn has an uncanny way of knowing about everything, even before it happens,” said another. Tyler rounded on the man who had spoken. “I would give my life for the prince,” he said, earnestly. “You know as well as I, that Parlan did not poison his father. The master sorcerer could easily have concocted the potion, that is what he does, and he does it well. He has talents like no one I have ever seen or heard of. It was a sad day when the king invited him into the castle, had he not done so, no doubt he would still be alive.”

  “You know, of course, that Kaleb will take the crown. I have heard that the Coronation will follow a month after his brother’s death,” remarked one of the serving girls.

  “He might sit upon the throne,” Tyler replied, “but he does not come of age for another six months. I hope that if we manage to rescue Parlan, we will be able to clear his name in that time and denounce this sorcerer for the traitor he is.” They huddled together for the rest of that evening making plans, knowing it would take more than just the few of them present to carry them out. The dungeons had been turned into a stronghold, with more guards securing it than there were patrolling the castle grounds. That had been Tobyn’s doing, having worried Kaleb with the idea that his brother’s friends might try a rescue attempt, thus putting his own life in danger. Kaleb had ordered that twenty men were to stand guard at all times, and threatened them with a slow and painful death should his brother escape. For too long he had stood in the shadow of his elder brother, and now with the thought of becoming king racing through his mind, he would allow nothing to stand in his way. With Tobyn to help him, nothing would. Tyler and his friends were aware of the heavy guard presence in the stronghold and decided they would have to act as Parlan was being led from the cells to the block in the square. On the morning of the beheading, the square was full by dawn, everyone vying for a prime position to see the event. For Tyler and the loyalists with him, it was good news, as it would provide cover for their activities. Tyler had twenty men and women spread amongst the crowd. From the shadows provided by the doorways and overhanging roofs, they prepared for what each of them had to do. As Parlan was led towards the execution platform, they lit the fuses to the straw-filled pots they held and tossed them high into the gathered crowd. As the mob panicked, more flaming pots were thrown towards the guards escorting Parlan. Fire spread wildly amongst them setting their clothes alight and singeing their hair and skin. Everyone was taken aback, not realising at first exactly what was happening. A dozen masked men rushed the guards and grabbed Parlan, dragging him away on his fettered legs. From the back of the crowd, a hooded man spurred a chestnut stallion through the milling mass of people, then grabbing Parlan by the collar of his robe, dragged him across the neck of the horse. It was over as quickly as it had begun. Before bowmen had time to fire a single arrow, the hooded man had ridden off. They cleared the square, but the soldiers were not slow in getting to their own horses. The mount had come from the Royal Stables and was the chosen beast that the prince preferred to ride. It was a strong, swift animal, but carrying double weight, it would not outrun the men following them. Aware of this, the rider headed towards an avenue of trees, and chancing a look over his shoulder, he saw at least twenty soldiers hard on his trail. “Life is never easy,” he grimaced to Parlan, who was trying his best to hold tight to the horse’s mane and not fall off. “You don’t see a soldier for days, and then you have an army of them chasing you.” He laughed as he rode clear of the trees at the end of the pathway. A few moments later, he heard shouts of anger and pain as the soldiers were knocked from their mounts. Another group of his men had lain in wait, and when the soldiers drew abreast of them, they drew taut a rope lying across the path; the men chasing the fleeing prisoner saw it too late and crashed to the ground. They rode on for a further two leagues until a farmhouse came in sight, on their right; slowing down he guided the horse into the open barn and helped Parlan to his feet. Stepping forward from the shadows, a man approached, holding a hammer and chisel poised to strike the shackles from Parlan’s ankles. A few moments later, his hands were also freed.