‘My death should suffice — it will be seen as a major blow for Morgravia,’ he said matter of factly before adding, ‘Valor is proud but he is not stupid. He has no male heir, sire. His young Princess will be Queen one day and will need an army of her own, and for Briavel to breed the soldiers of the future, they need peace. But her men, and ours, would do well to dispense with the ancient quarrel altogether. The threat from the north is very real, my King, for both our realms. Perhaps you may need each other one day.’
Thirsk spoke of Cailech, the self-proclaimed King of the Mountain People. In the early days Cailech had merely been the upstart and impossibly young leader of a rabble of hard Mountain Dwellers who rarely left their high ground amongst the imposing sprawl of ranges which framed the far north and north-east. His kind for centuries had kept their tribal squabbles to themselves, contained within the Razors, as the range was called. Back then, fifteen or so years ago, this young warrior, no more than eighteen summers, had begun to stamp a brutal authority across the tribes, uniting them. Thirsk had believed for several years now that it was only a matter of time before Cailech would feel confident enough to look beyond the mountains and out towards the fertile lands of Morgravia and Briavel.
‘I will continue your strengthening of the Legion to the north,’ the King said, reading his thoughts.
‘That will help me rest easy.’
Both men could hear Thirsk’s increasingly rapid breathing.
Magnus had to push back all the emotion welling inside him. ‘And so for you, my dearest friend. What can I do for you before you leave me?’ They clasped hands for the last time in the Legionnaire manner.
‘A blood pact, sire.’
The King’s eyebrow raised. He remembered the first time they had mixed blood. They had been lads and permitted to witness the ritual being performed between the former dukes of Felrawthy and Argorn — a special linking of Morgravia’s most powerful duchies in the north and south of the realm. The two boys had watched the rites wide-eyed, impressed at the solemnity of the occasion and the deep commitment between the participants. It had been Magnus’s idea for them to do the same. ‘We’ll commit to each other,’ he’d said to Fergys. ‘You will love me as your King and I will love you as my General, but we will be blood brothers above all else.’
They had found the courage to cut each other and hold palms together as the two nobles had done. They were not even ten years old.
Thirsk coughed violently again. His passing into the dark was just moments away. They could sense it.
‘Name it, Fergys!’ the King growled, his anxiety betraying him. ‘Whatever you ask is granted. You know it.’
Thirsk nodded, exhausted. ‘The children. My boy, Wyl. He must return from Argorn immediately. He is already General of the Legion and does not know it. He must finish his training in the palace.’ A new fit of coughing interrupted him. ‘Bring Gueryn with him, sire. Keep them close. There is no better teacher for him.’
‘Except the one who leaves him now,’ the King replied grimly. ‘And Ylena?’
‘All I ask is that you make a good marriage for her.’ Thirsk looked towards the table where his dagger lay.
Magnus moved without a word and fetched it. He sat down again beside his friend. The King passed the blade over his palm and did the same to Thirsk. They rejoined hands, mingling their blood.
The King spoke softly as he made his promise. ‘Ylena will want for nothing. Your son is now my son, Fergys Thirsk.’
‘A brother for your Celimus,’ Thirsk rasped as his breathing turned ragged.
‘They will be blood brothers, as we are,’ the King said, fighting back tears. His grip on his friend’s hand tightened. ‘Go now, Fergys. Struggle no more, my friend. May your soul travel safely.’
Fergys Thirsk nodded, the light already dying in his eyes. ‘Brothers in blood,’ he whispered, breathing his last.
King Magnus of Morgravia felt the clasp of his friend’s hand slacken as death claimed Thirsk. ‘Our sons will become one,’ he echoed gravely.
ONE
GUERYN LOOKED TO HIS left at the solemn profile of the lad who rode quietly next to him and felt another pang of concern for Wyl Thirsk, Morgravia’s new General of the Legion. His father’s death was as untimely as it was unexpected. Why did they all believe Fergys Thirsk would die of old age? His son was too young to take such a title and responsibility on his shoulders. And yet he must; custom demanded it. A Thirsk had been at the head of the Legion for almost two centuries. But this one was by the far the youngest. Gueryn thanked the stars which shined on them for giving the King sense enough to appoint a temporary commander until Wyl was of an age where men would respect him. The name of Thirsk carried much weight but no soldier would follow a near fourteen-year-old into battle.
Hopefully, there would be no war for many years now. According to the news filtering back from the capital, Morgravia had inflicted a terrible price on Briavel’s young men this time. No, Gueryn decided, there would be no fighting for a while … long enough for Wyl to turn into the fine young man he promised to be. He had no doubt Fergys Thirsk’s death had much to do with Briavel capitulating — Valor had his spoils now to take home from war.
Gueryn regarded the boy. The distinctive flame-coloured hair and squat set, so reminiscent of the Thirsk line. And he so badly needed his father’s guidance, the older man thought regretfully.
Wyl had taken the news of his father’s death stoically in front of the household, making Gueryn proud of the boy as he watched him comfort his younger sister. But later, behind closed doors, he had held the trembling shoulders of the lad and offered what comfort he could. The youngster worshipped his father and who could blame him, most of Morgravia’s men did as well. That Wyl should lose him so young was a tragic blow, particularly as they had not seen each other in many moons.
Ylena, at nine, was still young enough to be distracted by her loving nursemaid as well as her dolls and the new kitten which Gueryn had had the foresight to grab at the local market as soon as he was delivered the news. Wyl would not be so easily diverted and Gueryn could already sense the numbing grief hardening within the boy. Ever a serious, complex child, this would push Wyl further into himself, and Gueryn wondered whether being forced to the capital was such a good idea right now.
The Thirsk home in Argorn had been a happy one despite the head of the household having been absent so often. Gueryn, arguably Morgravia’s most talented soldier and strategist next to his General, had agreed several years back to take on what seemed the ridiculously light task of watching over the raising of the young Thirsk. But he had known from the steely gaze of the old warrior that this was a role the General considered precious and he would entrust this incredibly important job only to his accomplished captain whose mind was as sharp as the blade he wielded with such skill. There could be no finer teacher. Gueryn understood this and with a quiet regret at leaving his beloved Legion, he had moved to live amongst the rolling hills of Argorn, amongst the lush southern counties of Morgravia.
Essentially he became Wyl’s companion, military teacher, academic tutor and close friend. As much as the boy adored his father, the General spent most of his year in the capital, and it was Gueryn who filled the gap of Fergys Thirsk’s absence. It was of little wonder then that student and mentor had become so close.
‘Don’t watch me like that, Gueryn. I can almost smell your anxiety.’
‘How are you feeling about this?’ the soldier asked, ignoring the boy’s rebuke.
Wyl turned in his saddle to look at his friend, regarding the handsome former captain. A flush of colour to his pale, freckled face, betrayed his next words. ‘I’m feeling fine.’
‘Be honest with me of all people, Wyl.’
The lad looked away and they continued their steady progress towards the famed city of Pearlis. Gueryn waited, knowing his patience would win out. It had been just days since Wyl’s father had died. The wound was still raw and seeping. Wyl could hide nothing
from him.
‘I wish I didn’t have to go,’ Wyl finally said, and the soldier felt the tension in his body release somewhat. They could talk about it now and he could do what he could to make Wyl feel easier about his arrival in the strange, sprawling, often overwhelming capital. ‘But I know this was my father’s dying wish,’ Wyl added, trying not to sigh.
‘The King promised he would bring you to Pearlis. And he had good reason to do so. Magnus accepts that you are not ready for the role in anything but title yet but Pearlis is the only place you can learn your job and make an impression on the men you will one day command.’ Gueryn’s tone was gentle, but the words implacable. Wyl grimaced. ‘You can’t stamp your mark from sleepy Argorn,’ Gueryn added, wishing they could have had a few months — weeks even — just to get the boy used to the idea of having no parents.
Gueryn thought of the mother. Fragile and pretty, she had loved Fergys Thirsk and his gruff ways with a ferocity which belied her sweet, gentle nature. She had succumbed after a determined fight to the virulent coughing disease which had swept through Morgravia’s south. If she had not been weakened from Ylena’s long and painful birth she might have pulled through, for her heart was as courageous as her husband’s. The disease killed many in the household, mercifully sparing the children.
Wyl remembered his softly spoken mother, missed her acutely in his contained, reserved way. For all his rough-and-tumble boyishness, Gueryn thought, Wyl adored women. The ladies of the household loved him back, spoiling him with their affections but often whispering pitying words about his looks.
There was no escaping the fact that Wyl Thirsk was not a handsome boy. The crown of thick orange hair did nothing to help an otherwise plain, square face, and those who remembered the boy’s grandfather said that Wyl resembled the old man in uncanny fashion — his ugliness was almost as legendary as his soldiering ability. The red-headed Fergys Thirsk had been no oil painting either, which is why he had lived with constant surprise that his beautiful wife chose to marry him. Many would understand if the betrothal had been arranged but Helyna of Ramon had loved him well and had brooked no argument to her being joined to this high-ranking, plain-spoken, even plainer looking man who walked side by side with a King.
Vicious whispers at the court, of course, accused her of choosing Thirsk for his connections but she had relentlessly proved that the colourful court of Morgravia held little interest for her. Helyna Thirsk had had no desire for political intrigues or social climbing. Her only vanity had been her love of fine clothes, which Fergys had lavished on his young wife, claiming he had nothing else to spend his money on.
Wyl interrupted his thoughts. ‘Gueryn, what do we know about this Celimus?’
He had been waiting for just this question. ‘I don’t know him at all but he’s a year or two older than you and from what I hear he is fairly impressed with being the heir,’ he answered tactfully.
‘I see,’ Wyl replied. ‘What else do you hear of him. Tell me honestly.’
Gueryn nodded. Wyl should not be thrown into this arena without knowing as much as he could. ‘The King, I gather, continues to hope Celimus might be moulded into the stuff Morgravia can be proud of, although I would add that Magnus has not been an exceptional father. There is little affection between them.’
‘Why?’
‘I can tell you only what your father has shared. King Magnus married Princess Adana. It was an arranged marriage. According to Fergys, they disliked each other within days of the ceremony and it never got any easier between them. I saw her on two occasions and it is no exaggeration that Adana was a woman whose looks could take any man’s breath away. But she was cold. Your father said she was not just unhappy but angry at the choice of husband and despairing of the land she had come to. She had never wanted to come to Morgravia, believing it to be filled with peasants.’
The boy’s eyes widened. ‘She said that?’
‘And plenty more apparently.’
‘Where was she from?’
‘Parrgamyn — I hope you can dredge up its location from all those geography lessons?’
Wyl made a face at Gueryn’s disapproving tutorly tone. He knew exactly where Parrgamyn was situated, to the far northwest of Morgravia, in balmy waters about two hundred nautical miles west of the famed Isle of Cipres. ‘Exotic then?’
‘Very. Hence Celimus’s dark looks.’
‘So she would have been of Zerque faith?’ he wondered aloud and Gueryn nodded. ‘Go on,’ Wyl encouraged, glad to be thinking about something different than the pain of his father’s death.
Gueryn sighed. ‘A long tale really but essentially she hated the King, blamed her father for his avarice in marrying her off to what she considered an old man, and poisoned the young Celimus’s mind against his father.’
‘She died quite young, though, didn’t she?’
The soldier nodded. ‘Yes but it was the how that caused the ultimate rift between father and son. Your father was with the King when the hunting accident happened and could attest to the randomness of the event. Adana lost her life with an arrow through her throat.’
‘The King’s?’ Wyl asked, incredulous. ‘My father never said anything about this to me before.’
‘The arrow was fletched in the King’s very own colours. There was no doubt whose quiver it had come from.’
‘How could it have happened?’
Gueryn shrugged. ‘Who knows? Fergys said the Queen was out riding where she should not have been and Magnus shot badly. Others whispered, of course, that his aim was perfect, as always.’ He arched a single eyebrow. It spoke plenty.
‘So Celimus has never forgiven his father?’
‘You could say. Celimus worshipped Adana as much as the father despised her. But in losing his mother very early there’s something you and Celimus have in common and this might be helpful to you,’ he offered. ‘The lad, I’m told, is already highly accomplished in the arts of soldiering too. He has no equal in the fighting ring amongst his peers. Sword or fists, on horseback or foot, he is genuinely talented.’
‘Better than me?’
Gueryn grinned. ‘We’ll see. I know of no one of your tender years who is as skilled in combat — excluding myself at your age, of course.’ He won a smile from the boy at this. ‘But, Wyl, a word of caution. It would not do to whip the backside of the young Prince. You may find it politic to play second fiddle to a king-in-waiting.’
Wyl’s gaze rested firmly on Gueryn. ‘I understand.’
‘Good. Your sensibility in this will protect you.’
‘Do I need protection?’ he asked, surprised.
Gueryn wished he could take back the warning. It was ill-timed but he was always honest with his charge. ‘I don’t know yet. You are being brought to Pearlis to learn your craft and follow in your father’s proud footsteps. You must consider the city your home now. You understand this? Argorn must rest in your mind as a country property you may return to from time to time. Home is Stoneheart now.’ He watched the sorrow at those last words take a firm hold on the boy. It was said now. Had to be aired, best out in the open and accepted. ‘The other reason the King is keen to have you in the capital is, I suspect, because he is concerned at his son’s wayward manner.’
‘Oh?’
‘Celimus needs someone to temper his ways. The King has been told you possess a similar countenance to your father and I gather this pleases him greatly. He has hopes that you and his son will become as close friends as he and Fergys were.’ Gueryn waited for Wyl to comment but the boy said nothing. ‘Anyway, friendship can never be forced, so let’s just keep an open mind and see how it all pans out. I shall be with you the whole time.’
Wyl bit his lip and nodded. ‘Let’s not tarry then, Gueryn.’
The soldier nodded in return and dug his heels into the side of his horse, as the boy kicked into a gallop.
Wyl remembered that ride into Pearlis as if it were yesterday. It had been three moons now since his father’s death and,
although he was now used to the routine of the palace and his role, Wyl hated his new life. If not for his overwhelming sense of duty he would have run away.
He scowled as an exasperated Gueryn struck him a blow on his wrist. ‘You’re not concentrating, Wyl. On the battlefield that slip could have cost you a hand.’
The soldier deliberately struck again but this time Wyl countered just as ferociously, his wooden sword making a loud clacking sound as he pressed back against his opponent.
‘Better!’ Gueryn called, relieved. ‘Again!’
From out of the corner of his eye, Wyl could see Prince Celimus had sidled up to a few of the flatterers he usually surrounded himself with. Wyl doubled his efforts and Gueryn was prudent enough to not criticise further.
About time, the soldier thought as he increased his speed, stepping up the session to a combat level rather than just a drill. He was pleased to see the boy relax slightly — a good sign that he was no longer concerned with who was watching but fully attendant on defending himself. Gueryn then upped the skills still further, delivering a frighteningly fast series of slashes and thrusts which would have challenged a battle-hardened soldier, let alone a fourteen-year-old boy. Those around them in the practice courtyard had fallen silent, and various trainers and other lads wandered over to watch what was clearly a ‘fight to the death’.
Wyl, sweating lightly now in the chill morning, stepped back, feinted, moved to his left, parried and then dodged back to his original position, feinting once again before he saw the gap and struck hard and fast. He crouched nimbly to avoid the low, normally ‘fatal’ slash he had already anticipated from his wily opponent and then struck upwards with force, two-handed. Suddenly Gueryn was on his back panting and Wyl’s piece of timber was at his throat.
There was murder in the boy’s eyes and if they were on the field, Gueryn believed he would be drawing his last breath. Gueryn also knew Wyl had genuinely bested him, despite his smaller stature and strength, with a blaze of raw anger. He realised he would have to counsel him on this and explain that Wyl needed to fight clear-headed. Fighting decisions were always based on training and intuition rather than just pure emotion. That approach only worked once; Gueryn knew that when wave after wave of soldiers were bearing down, it was the cool, emotionless approach that won the day.
The Quickening Page 2