The Children of Isador

by Sam J. Charlton

  Yaduk knew better than to argue with Grull. The Tarzark King had a notoriously short fuse, even when in a good mood. He wisely kept silent and followed Grull over to the fire.

  Grull took hold of the joint of meat Argoth handed him. He bit into the hot flesh and let the juices run down his chin. His great jaws worked furiously and his slit eyes fastened on Yaduk.

  “I have dire news my Lord,” Yaduk began. “I have lost contact with Morgarth Evictar.”

  Grull stopped chewing. “What is the significance of this?”

  Yaduk’s shoulders slumped. “Ever since he revealed himself to me, I have remained in close mind contact with him—until an hour ago when our mind link was abruptly severed. I can no longer sense his presence.”

  Yaduk was having trouble hiding his distress.

  However, upon hearing these words Grull was finding it a challenge to mask his jubilation.

  If the High Sorcerer had not been so distressed and worried he would have seen the naked pleasure that flared in his King’s eyes before Grull got a hold of himself and carefully shielded his thoughts and feelings. The Tarzark King was well aware of the concern and worry that would ripple around the camp at this news. The Tarzark had long revered Morgarth Evictar as a god. Grull did not share his people’s belief in Evictar but he knew better than to voice his feelings for revered and feared as Grull was, there were things in Tarzark culture that were untouchable and that half-blood Orinian spawn—Morgarth Evictar—was one of them.

  King Grull schooled his features into an expression of concern.

  “The Great Morgarth Evictar is no more?” he queried, affecting a worried tone of voice.

  “I know not for certain,” Yaduk admitted, “but our mind link was as strong as an iron coil. Just before it snapped, a strong sensation of betrayal, helplessness and rage swept over me. I fear he has met a terrible end.”

  “This is tragic news,” Grull lied. “It is a great loss for both the Tarzark Kingdom and Isador herself.” Grull paused here and dipped his head so that Yaduk would not see the lie in his eyes.

  “But we must rally!” Grull brought his head up sharply and let his words ring out. “We cannot let the demise of this great warlock weaken us!” His hard gaze swept over the crowd of Tarzark warriors, drawing them in.

  “Victory is almost upon us!” he shouted. “We shall take this city for Morgarth Evictar even if he is no longer with us to share the triumph!”

  The horde of Tarzark roared in collective agreement, their distress forgotten. Morgarth Evictar was a shadowy figure to most of them. He was a powerful warlock with a past and present steeped in mystery but Grull was real and he had led them this far in battle without any apparent help from Morgarth Evictar. They would continue to follow him unquestioningly.

  Satisfied he had placated them, Grull turned back to his dinner. His gaze swept over the High Sorcerer. Yaduk watched his King with hooded eyes. Grull did not like the keen, assessing intelligence he saw there.

  “Leave me now,” Grull snapped.

  The High Sorcerer bowed and slipped away without a further word. Grull watched him go. Yaduk would have to be disposed of.

  ***

  On the higher levels of Falcon’s Mount, the atmosphere was subdued and tense. Hundreds of Orinian soldiers had fallen that day; morale was low and both townsfolk and soldiers were exhausted. The nauseating smell of roasting human flesh wafted up through the citadel.

  Atop a balcony, above the palace courtyard—that was now crammed with survivors—Lord Aran Fire addressed his people. His wife Imeldia, whose beauty still shone arrestingly, stood next to her husband. Imeldia’s face was solemn, her smooth brow furrowed, as her gaze swept over the townsfolk and soldiers. She was looking for someone.

  At the back of the crowd, with her woolen hat pulled down over her ears, Myra saw Imeldia look straight at her and then her gaze slid away. She had not seen her, which was not surprising for Myra was virtually unrecognizable in boy’s clothing. Her face was dirty and her hair hidden under a soiled hat. Myra felt a pang of loneliness as she watched Lady Fire.

  She had liked Imeldia; she and her husband had been kind to Myra. Despite Lady Brin’s obvious unhappiness, they had always tried to make her feel welcome without being pushy. Unlike Myra, Imeldia had married for love but, despite their happiness, Lord and Lady Fier’s union had proven childless. In contrast to Theo Brin, who had publicly shamed his young wife for her failure to reproduce, Aran Fire appeared unconcerned by his lack of children. The position of City-Lord was not handed down from father to son, so there was little reason for him to covet an heir. When a City-Lord died, a public assembly appointed a new one. Despite this, Lord Brin had never ceased to complain that neither of his wives had produced a son.

  “People of Falcon’s Mount, hear me!” Lord Fire raised his voice over the chatter of fearful voices. “You have fought tirelessly today. Despite that our losses have been heavy, I have never been so proud to be Orinian as on this day.”

  Lord Fire paused a moment, letting his words carry throughout the vast courtyard.

  Emotion tightened his throat. His body ached from fatigue but his mind had never been clearer. Knowing his death was imminent brought life into sharp focus as never before. The Orinians had held the second level as night fell, not giving the Tarzark one inch of an advantage. Sentries had been placed along the wall. Even if Grull did not launch a surprise attack during the night, as soon as the first rays of sun peeked over the eastern horizon, the Tarzark would come at them relentlessly—until Falcon’s Mount was taken.

  Aran Fire was no fool. He deliberately did not dwell on the fact that the last bastion of Men was doomed to fall—however, that did not mean he was unaware of it. He had struggled with a deep sadness until his confrontation with Theo Brin. Since then he had been too busy to indulge himself in melancholy. If they were finished, he had to make sure Falcon’s Mount was victorious in defeat. He had to appear as if he still thought the Tarzark could be beaten—even if he had long since realized that was an impossibility.

  ““Falcon’s Mount must hold!” Lord Fire continued. His voice was strident. “We are all that remains. We are not just fighting for Falcon’s Mount but for Isador herself. If we fall then we must take the Tarzark with us!”

  Lord Fire looked at their battered faces and saw the fear there. Tears ran down many faces, but Fire also saw their pride and spirit and felt an overwhelming surge of love for his people.

  “I will be at your side,” his voice was gentler now, “and I will stay there until the very end.”

  Myra Brin watched the City-Lord of Falcon’s Mount and was relieved, not for the first time, it was Aran Fire and not Theo Brin that had been forced to make the final stand.

  To her relief, Lord Brin was nowhere in sight. She knew him well enough however, to sense his presence lurking somewhere in the shadows. An ambitious man to the last, Aran Fier’s bravery and leadership would gall Lord Theo Brin for it showed him up for the coward he really was.

  Myra’s body ached and her stomach hurt from hunger. After they had passed through the gate into the second level, she had managed to lose the bounty hunter in the crowd. She was no longer afraid of him, realizing that he had ceased working for her husband, but his manner still grated on her. He seemed to think that stopping her from ending her own life gave him the right to be insufferably rude to her.

  For the first time, Myra felt almost happy. She had a taste of what it felt like to be free, anonymous and a person in her own right. She enjoyed this new sensation so much it saddened her to think that it would soon end.

  Night shrouded Falcon’s Mount. A portentous quiet settled over the once vibrant city. Although the Orinians still held the top two levels of the citadel, the survivors had fallen back to the top level, leaving the second level occupied by soldiers.

  The homes of the wealthiest citizens of Falcon’s Mount were thrown open to feed and house those who were now homeless. Hung
ry and bone tired, Myra followed the crowd out of the Palace courtyard and soon found herself sitting at a huge, scrubbed table in a warm kitchen, peeling vegetables for dinner. No one spoke to her much but she preferred it that way. Sitting in the crowded kitchen and helping to prepare a simple dinner while listening to the intermittent and subdued conversation around her, Myra felt a sense of well-being steal over her.

  Finally, when the huge venison and vegetable stew was prepared, she helped dish out food to the hungry townsfolk crowded into the street outside. Then, helping herself to a wedge of unleavened bread and a bowl of stew, she found an overturned barrel to perch on and ate her meal.

  Later on, as a crescent moon rode high in the sky, Myra wrapped herself in a blanket and curled up on the floor in the corridor outside the kitchens. She was aware, for a short while, of people stepping over or around her before the exhaustion, which had been looming since dusk, swept over her and she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  ***

  A great fire roared in the hearth of one of Serranguard’s immense kitchens. The heat was a healing balm, seeping through their battered and chilled bodies and warming the blood. To one side of the kitchen, Jennadil was foraging around for supplies. He found dried meat, apples and some hard cheese. It would be a simple meal but everyone was so hungry it would seem a feast. At the other end of the kitchen, Will Stellan lay on the kitchen table near the fire. Lassendil, who was the only one among them, save Adelyis, with any healing abilities, had unbuckled the leather breast guard Will wore and peeled back the shirt underneath, revealing deep gashes which had thankfully stopped bleeding.

  Adelyis stood next to her brother and watched as Lassendil inspected Will Stellan’s wounds. She winced at the gravity of his injuries. Will was still unconscious and breathing shallowly. His skin was ashen and his eyes seemed sunken into his skull.

  “It’s a miracle he’s still alive,” Lassendil murmured. He had not realized his sister was standing next to him; it was only when he heard her sharp intake of breath at his diagnosis that he realized Adelyis was at his elbow.

  Once again, Lassendil Florin gave his sister a piercing look. She cared a little too much for this Orinian it seemed. He wondered if she had broken her promise of celibacy.

  Lassendil looked back at the unconscious man. He barely knew Will Stellan, and the man had never done anything to him, but Lassendil felt a stab of irrational dislike. Lassendil had never thought of himself as an overprotective, jealous brother but his sister had made promises to the Ennadil Order of Wizardry. He had always admired her strength of character and the seriousness with which she took her role as Ennadil Witch. The thought she might succumb to human weakness disappointed him. Perhaps her recent trials had changed Adelyis in more ways than he would have liked to admit.

  “Is he going to die?” Adelyis did not take her eyes of Will Stellan as she spoke.

  “It is hard to say,” Lassendil replied honestly. “Whether or not he survives depends on whether his wounds become infected and on how hard he fights.”

  Adelyis nodded, still not meeting her brother’s gaze. “Can I help?”

  Lassendil shook his head. “There’s not a lot you can do here. Find me some blankets to cover him while I disinfect his wounds. The most we can do is keep him warm and get him to drink something when he wakes up.”

  Grateful to have something to do, Adelyis turned away from her brother’s probing gaze. He had always been able to read her too well.

  “Dinner’s served!” Jennadil’s voice rang out across the kitchen. The wizard had perched himself on a stool at the head of the table. He was pouring ale into tankards that he slid along the worn wooden tabletop towards his thirsty companions.

  At the sight and smell of the simple fare, Adelyis felt her stomach rumble like an approaching thunderstorm. She had lost count of how many hours had passed since she had last eaten. She had almost forgotten she was hungry but the weakness in her limbs and her shaking hands warned her that she would not be able to go on much longer without sustenance.

  Adelyis managed to push her hunger aside for a moment longer and went in search of blankets. She found some in the laundry and returned with an armful of dusty coverlets. She draped them over Will before joining the others at the table.

  The dried meat, apples and hard cheese were delicious, washed down by thirst-quenching malted ale. The companions did not converse for a while, not until their stomachs were full. After a while though, conversation turned to the siege of Falcon’s Mount.

  “What now?” Jennadil leaned back and eased his full stomach. “After all we’ve been through do we sit back and let the Tarzark come to us after they’ve done with Falcon’s Mount?”

  “We should ride to their aid,” Gywna spoke, swallowing a mouthful of bread.

  “What can the five of us possibly do against legions of Tarzark?” Lassendil pointed out. “Unless we can bring an army with us.”

  Taz made a sound resembling a cross between a hiss and a snort at such a ludicrous suggestion.

  “Has that snow storm of yours covered all of Isador?” Gywna directed her question at Jennadil.

  The wizard shook his head. “No more than ten leagues in every direction I’d say but enough to keep us safe for now. Let’s hope the Morg further south decide they’ve had enough of Isador and make for home.”

  “If they have not done so already,” Adelyis added hopefully.

  A sudden noise caused the group of exhausted companions to leap out of their seats, their hearts hammering in their chests.

  “I think you might be wrong about that Adelyis,” Lassendil reached for his sword, his finely chiseled features sharp with tension. “Maybe that storm didn’t kill all of them.”

  Taz growled something unpleasant in his own language, needing no translation. He grabbed the heavy broadsword and a vicious mace he had appropriated from one of the fallen Morg.

  “Not again!” Gywna muttered, unsheathing her Wraith Sword.

  The noise came again, louder this time, the sound of shuffling and scraping.

  The companions exchanged wary glances before Taz took the initiative, stomped across the kitchen and flung open the door.

  An icy draft rushed in, causing the fire to gutter in the hearth.

  Figures emerged from the shadows, ragged and shivering. Instead of the gaunt, leathery faces of the Morg, they saw the ravaged faces of Ennadil and Orinian men and women. They were weak, hungry and suffering from exposure.

  The companions lowered their weapons, their faces suffused with relief. Of course, the Morg had not been the only slaves. Hundreds of Ennadil and Orinians had been taken from their homes and enslaved, both in body and in mind. Adelyis remembered the sight of their beaten eyes as they followed their Morg masters around in Valdorn.

  Taz glanced across at Lassendil and grinned wickedly, “Looks like we’ve found our army.”

  Hours later, well past midnight, Gywna unrolled a blanket on the flagstone floor near the fire. Fatigue had progressed to bone-aching exhaustion. She stifled a groan as she stretched out. She would never have thought that a hard floor could feel like a feather mattress, but this one did.

  Gywna’s head still whirled at the knowledge they would not stand alone against the Tarzark after all. Upon discovering they were not the only survivors, she and the others had brought as many people as possible in out of the cold. Fireplaces throughout the vast castle now roared invitingly. They shared the remaining food out, and the City-Lord’s secret hoard was ransacked.

  At that moment, no less than one hundred and fifty confused and weary men and women, with some children among them, bedded down for the night. Despite their exhaustion, the survivors had been full of questions. Gywna, like the others, had tried her best to answer them. However, she knew it would take time for the enormity of what had happened to sink in.

  The survivors would not have much time for contemplation, for many of them had volunteered to join the small
army Jennadil was amassing. They would leave tomorrow, as soon as they were able. It was a three-day—two days if they travelled by night as well—journey to Falcon’s Mount on the East-West Highway, and they could not afford to delay their departure.

  Gywna lay on her side, feeling the fire’s warmth seep into her tired body. She thought of Falcon’s Mount burning and of the last bastion of Orin falling to the Tarzark. Her stomach cramped and she prayed to the Wraiths of her Ancestors that the people of Falcon’s Mount would be able to keep the Tarzark at bay for a while yet.

  Gywna was glad that, despite their collective bone-weariness, her companions had unanimously decided to go the aid of Falcon’s Mount—and she was especially relieved Lassendil had agreed to join them. She was not ready to say good-bye to him and, although she had never suffered from an infatuation before, Gywna knew she was held in Lassendil’s thrall. During dinner that evening, her gaze had constantly strayed to him. Now though, Lassendil appeared oblivious to her.

  A few feet away from Gywna, Adelyis lay quietly, feigning sleep. She waited until everyone slumbered before she got up from her place near the fire. She stepped over Gywna, who was snoring gently, and padded to the other end of the kitchen. Will Stellan lay stretched out on the table. His breathing was shallow, his ashen skin slick with sweat. He looked terrible.

  Adelyis realized with a shock that he was dying.

  She furtively looked over her shoulder. They were all sleeping soundly, including her brother. Lassendil was a light sleeper but the day’s trauma had exhausted him like everyone else. Adelyis longed to stretch out in front of the fire once more and let sleep claim her but she could not do so knowing Will Stellan might be dead in the morning.

  The ‘enhancement’ she and Jennadil had experienced on top of the tower still hummed through her. It was an odd sensation and it gave her an extraordinary awareness of her own body. The ‘enhancement’ had increased her command of magic; she instinctively knew things she had not before.

  Without any further hesitation, Adelyis undid Will’s shirt and placed one hand, palm down, in the center of his bare chest. The other hand she cupped over his throat, just under his chin. She would try an Ennadil healing rite in conjunction with her own powers.