“No-one draws my blood and lives,” whispered Aurek, bringing his blade round in an arc at shoulder height. Suddenly the man’s shrieks of agony were silenced, as his head hit the ground seconds before his body collapsed.
“Anyone else wish to challenge me for the right to lead?” Aurek demanded, as he wiped his sword clean on Cleaver’s back.
The men glanced at each other, then as a group they surged forward, each trying to be the first to congratulate him and welcome him into their midst.
They left the mutilated body where it had fallen in a growing pool of blood and rode away inland, towards the castle. Where, Parlan was worriedly studying the piece of parchment describing the sacking of more than a dozen villages, including the slaughter of nearly all the inhabitants.
“There seems to be around eighty men,” he said to his captain, “I want you to take a hundred and fifty of our best soldiers and engage these marauders. I want them stopped before they can murder and plunder any further inland.”
The captain saluted and marched smartly out of the king’s presence. His men were assembled and gone from the castle grounds within the hour. It would be the last time that any of them would see their loved ones again. There had indeed only been eighty men resting in the glade, but a further two hundred had been despatched on raids, and now, having completed their task, rode hard and fast to re-join Aurek’s group.
As Parlan paced the room, brow furrowed and one fist angrily smacking into the palm of his other hand, the twenty or so men gathered there watched him in uneasy silence. “I will not close up this castle like a tomb,” he vowed, eyeing the nervous faces before him. “This report I have does not indicate that these murderous pirates are headed this way, and besides, I have sent one hundred and fifty soldiers out to intercept them. I am sure they will be able to deal with a rag-tag group of ruffians whom they outnumber almost two to one.” “But my lord,” dared one of the councillors, “if the report is wrong and they should attack, we are at present, short on men to defend us.” “If I batten down our hatches and close the castle, then the traders who come here tomorrow for market day will be left defenceless on the banks of the moat; what better bargaining tool could the rabble have for our surrender. I will close the gates and raise the drawbridge, only after they are all safe inside. Besides, only a madman would lay siege to a castle with just eighty men.” The remaining soldiers were strung out thinly along the ramparts, with lookouts posted in the high tower to give early warning of approaching riders, which at least appeased some of the councillors’ worries. At first light the drawbridge was lowered, allowing the first few straggling traders entrance to the castle grounds. There had so far been no sign of trouble, and Parlan relaxed a little and set about attending to some important documentation. Aurek knew the strength of the castle’s forces and having already defeated the men Parlan had sent to intercept him, was aware that the remaining soldiers would be a walkover. But he was also aware that the castle held many concealing nooks and crannies, from which could be fired storms of arrows to decimate his army. He had sent a few of his men on ahead, and disguised as traders and villagers, they had gained entrance without question. Once inside the grounds, the men had slipped unnoticed into the castle itself, and despatched the most dangerous threats. Two men climbed stealthily into the tower, and slit the throats of the lookouts signalling to Aurek that his way was clear.
Parlan was blissfully unaware of the fighting that had broken out, until a terrified servant tripped headlong into the room and gabbled out the alarm. Snatching up his sword, he rushed out into the corridor to be met by two of Aurek’s men. He left them lying in a pool of their cooling blood, as he raced towards the courtyard. As he left the building, he saw dozens of his own men lying maimed or dead, their cries and moans of pain mingling with the sound of clashing swords as others fought for their lives. He raised his own weapon to defend himself, but was outflanked by a second man who stabbed him in the shoulder. His arm turned numb and useless, as the blade cut deep into his flesh; instinctively he reached for his dagger, but it never left its scabbard. An arrow struck him in the back and he crumpled to the flagstones with a cry of agonised despair. A lone figure trotted arrogantly across the drawbridge and surveyed the fighting with smug satisfaction. The axe at his side dripped with the blood of an innocent villager, who had inadvertently got in his way. The frightened and unarmed villagers pressed themselves against the walls of the castle, trying to lose themselves in the shadows and avoid the flailing swords. Aurek signalled to a group of his men to secure the prisoners ready for transport to the coast, when having returned to their port of origin they would be sold as slaves. “When you have finished that task, you are at liberty to ransack the castle and take anything of value, including any pretty faces that catch your eye. I know you have been a long time at sea. I want that brat of a king found,” he called to another of his men, “if he’s dead, bring me his body. I want his head displayed upon the spike over the main entrance before we leave, it will be a lesson to all those who would cross me.”
The man gave a one-finger salute and called out to two others to finish off their opponents quickly and help him. Aurek dismounted and entered by the West Wing doorway, covetously eyeing the tapestries and paintings hanging along the walls as he passed. He continued past the magnificent staircase that led to the upper levels of the castle, but his single-minded objective was the Trophy Room. Throwing back the doors to crash against the walls, he stood for a moment before striding towards the mantle. As he surveyed the room, he remembered the elder of the princes and the commoner standing together on the other side of the wide oak table, and his memory brought him the girl who had somehow attained a level of conjury that still had him baffled. Had her mother used her own strength to aid her daughter? That might account for her besting him. It was a mistake to have underestimated Ilanthia and her spawn, and one he would not make the next time they met. Leaving the Trophy Room, Aurek clutched his anger to his breast as he made his way back towards the courtyard.
“Has that wretched boy been found yet?”
“Not yet my lord, but he was wounded in the shoulder, and an arrow pierced his back. He can’t have gone far it’ll only a matter of time before we unearth him, or find his carcass.”
“Well, see that you do,” Aurek threatened, turning his back and heading towards the North entrance.
His steel-shod boots echoed eerily in the deserted corridors, a solemn death-knell to all who heard his approaching footsteps. He came upon a set of stone steps that led him down to the lower depths of the castle. It was cold and dank, the scent of mould and decay clogged his nostrils, but with his left hand resting on the hilt of his sword, he unhesitatingly followed the steps down until he reached a wooden door, closed tight as it should be in a place such as this. Turning the iron ring of the lock, he lifted the latch and entered the familiar room. He cast his eyes over the cobweb-drifted shelves and was satisfied that nothing had been disturbed. No one dared visit the sorcerer’s quarters. He struck light to a candle to guide his steps towards a heavy scarred oak bench, brushing aside thick dusty webs and their malevolent inhabitants he reached under it and removed his book of spells. With the key, he unlocked the pouch and removed its sacred contents. Aurek smiled into the darkness, aware that everyone in the castle had feared the sorcerer Tobyn, just as they should, oh yes. He lovingly fingered his book of spells once again, who’s covering of skin still felt warm and alive, bringing back fond memories of the man that had once worn it. In his betrayal, the man had cried out for mercy, but Tobyn had given him something better than that, he had given him immortality. Already his memory and epidermis had survived for two centuries longer than his allotted life span. Unwilling to lose it from his grasp, he nevertheless replaced it in the pouch, and turned the key in the lock, resetting the ward that would, if tampered with, turn into instant and particularly unpleasant death. “The Devil comes in many forms,” he whispered, then, throwing back his head, he roared into the ni
ght, “and now he returns with a vengeance.” With the pouch tucked safely inside his leather body armour, he climbed the stairs back to the upper level corridors. Seeing six of his men struggling with a heavy sack of silver, he grabbed one painfully by his arm. “Have you found that Royal insect yet?” The man stared at Aurek, wide-eyed with terror. “He m-may have been c-caught,” stuttered the quaking man, “your first in c-command ordered twenty m-men to search for him.”
Aurek snarled incomprehensibly as he threw the man roughly against the wall. He strode into the courtyard, ready to find the brat himself if he must.
Chapter 14
Katrina
Katrina’s parents had been in lifelong service to the king. Following her family’s tradition, she had started her duties in the castle as a maid, but with hard work and devotion to the Royal household, she had been promoted to the position of waiting upon the newly crowned king. It was because of her new position that she had been on her way to the laundry room to fetch clean sheets for his bed. When the fighting broke out, she ran and hid in a concealed chamber overlooking the courtyard. She watched horrified as many of her friends were butchered below, losing their young lives for no reason other than for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Never before in her life had she known such abject terror and helplessness. Then she saw something that shocked the breath from her body - her king fell with an arrow deep in his back.
Drifting in and out of consciousness, Parlan heard a voice urging him to get up, an instruction that went into battle with his pain-racked body, which demanded he lie still. “Quickly, my lord,” pressed the voice; “you must get away from here before they come for you.”
It wasn’t until she tried to turn him over that she also saw the sword wound in his shoulder. The flagstones were running with his blood. She saw the life seem to leave his eyes even as she urged him to his feet, Katrina wondered if there would soon be yet another coronation. As she tried to lift him, Parlan moaned and bit at his already ragged lips, the pain from his shoulder and the arrow in his back almost wrenching him back into unconsciousness.
“Please my lord, you must help me, I cannot lift you on my own.”
Parlan curled his knees towards his chest then rolled over onto them, the dirty flagstones scoring his ashen cheeks as he tried to steady himself. With the aid of his good arm and Katrina’s strong shoulder he managed to haul himself agonisingly to his feet. She draped his arm across her neck and shoulder, and wrapping her arm firmly round his waist to keep him upright, they stumbled through the nearest doorway where Katrina dragged Parlan out of sight of the fighting men. The room she had previously hidden in would not be safe, it being too close to the courtyard. She had to find somewhere she could tend to his wounds or he would certainly die.
They struggled on down a passageway, he barely able to stand, she trying her hardest not to let her king fall. Halfway along the passage they heard footsteps, panic gripped her and she spun her head searching for a place to hide. A few yards away was a doorway, and renewing her hold around his waist she wrestled him inside, hiding behind the half open door. The footsteps halted outside, Katrina held her breath and clamped her hand over Parlan’s mouth to stifle his feeble moans. Her heart began to beat so loud in her ears, for a while she imagined the men might hear it too. A sword tip pushed the door wide, but the searcher remarked to his colleague that the room was empty and their steps faded as they carried on down the passageway.
Katrina removed her hand from Parlan’s mouth and blew out a relieved breath, her heart hammered in her chest and it took a few moments before she could gather sufficient strength to move her king to a safer hiding place. They had travelled three corridors deeper into the castle without any further scares, when Parlan realised where they were he asked her to take him towards the lower East Wing. “I know of a secret place where we can hide without fear of discovery”, he grimaced. She guided the exhausted young man in the requested direction, but glancing behind her, she was horrified at the tell tale trail of blood they had left, it would act like markers in a child’s game of ribbon chase. She removed her pinafore and tore it into strips to bind Parlan’s arm to his chest. “You must try to keep it in place,” she impressed on him, “or else your blood will lead your assassins straight to us.” Parlan grunted his understanding as he found himself being half dragged onward again. Katrina studied the arrow still protruding from his back far too close to his spine, and knew it would have to be removed sooner rather than later. Finally they reached the corridor that led towards the lower levels, Parlan instructed her to stop at the halfway point. “Lower me to the floor,” he gasped, bending his knees. He counted the stones; seven rows up, three stones in from the left. He leant against it with his good hand, but found he hadn’t the necessary strength to open the secret passage. “Press against this stone, it will move inward and open a doorway for us,” his voice faltered with the pain of his wounds.
She fell to her knees and did as she was bid, but it wouldn’t budge. “Are you sure about this?” she questioned him doubtfully. “Yes,” he insisted, “I am sure. You have to try harder.” In the distance came faint footsteps, if she failed now, all would be lost. There was nowhere for them to hide. She leaned both hands against the stone and with all her weight behind her effort it grated begrudgingly before sliding inwards to reveal the doorway. With no thought for his pain, Katrina grabbed Parlan and yanked him inside, before spinning quickly to shove the heavy wall back in place. No sooner had the locking mechanism snapped shut, than she heard Aurek’s men clatter past. It was as black as evil inside the secret passage with the door closed, and she almost tripped over Parlan’s body lying full length on the cold dirt floor. She heard his whimper of agony as her soft boot caught his side. “There is a sconce about head height on the wall to your left, and here is a striker to light the torch stuck in it.” He held up the flint and striker for her, and a groping hand took it from his grasp. Once it was lit, she could see the length of the passageway, which seemed to run the full length of the room it was hidden behind. In the gloom of the light thrown by the burning flambeau, Parlan studied his saviour closely for the first time, and was surprised to find she was the girl who tended his quarters. He had often remarked to himself how pretty she was and even now wearing a worried frown, she had very appealing eyes and full lips, which he imagined, would look delightful in a smile.
“You will have to remove the arrow from my back,” he said, wincing as he tried to sit more comfortably, “or it will fester and poison my blood.”
“I don’t think I can do that, my lord,” Katrina said, terrified at the thought, “it would be better if you could hold on until we can get you to your physician.”
“There is no time,” he urged, “I must get back on my feet to help the people in the castle. If I lay prone on the floor, you can straddle my back, grasp the arrow firmly in both hands and pull it out. Heat the blade of my dagger in the flame and use it to cauterise the wound. If you don’t, I have no chance. I have seen many men die from wounds such as this. Don’t be afraid, girl; I have faith in you to save your king.” He tried to smile reassuringly, but it turned into a grimace as fresh pain surged through his wounds.
She did as she was instructed and when he laid full length on the cold flagstones, she gently lowered herself onto his back, took the arrow in her trembling hands, and wrenched it free. She heard him gasp, but make no other sound. The arrow head was bloody and tatters of flesh hung from the barb, she threw it as far as she could away from them, burning hatred for the men who had done this raging in her heart. Removing the blade from the flame, she cauterised the bleeding gash. This was one agony too much for Parlan to bear; he clenched his teeth to stifle a cry, then, blissfully passed out. For a long moment, she sat there gazing at the peacefully unconscious face of the man she had loved since she could remember, and wished that they were alone together under different circumstances. But that could never be, the destiny of a man of royal blood didn’t lie with a simpl
e chambermaid.
When Parlan regained consciousness, he found himself sitting up, propped against the wall of the passage. His arm had been neatly bandaged and tied against his chest and the wound in his back, although throbbing with pain, felt better for the lack of the arrow. The girl sat with her arm draped around his shoulders, cradling his head against her shoulder. He could still taste the surreptitious kiss she had brushed across his mouth, even though his senses had been swimming in and out of a feverish darkness at the time. As he attempted to sit upright, she almost jerked her arm guiltily away from him; confusion and sorrow mingled in her mind. A maidservant in love with a king, what would he do if he ever found out. “My lord, you are awake,” she said, helping him to sit straight.”
“Yes, thanks to you. If you had not swapped roles with my surgeon, I would now be dead, if not from the wound itself, my would-be assassin would have found me and finished the job. I owe you my life and if we manage to survive, I will make sure you are amply rewarded.”
“I don’t need any reward,” she said, a tremble in her voice, “anyone would have done the same for their king.”
He saw the hurt clouding her eyes and realised that his words had been flippant and chosen with less care than he intended. “I worded that badly, almost as though I was thanking you for finding a lost dog, and I meant so much more than that. I have often seen you going about your duties and wondered what it might be like, were I not king, to have taken you riding or spent some time with you walking in the fields. Or maybe to have a meal together, with no light other than that of the candles to glow in your eyes and hair. When this is over perhaps we can allow ourselves some time from our duties to do those things.” He reached out to place gentle fingers on her cheek, before drawing her closer to return her butterfly kiss.
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