by David Waine
The boy stood swaying, his mind blank. Dully he registered the pounding from without. He turned in time to see the door smash open as Dorcan burst in, weapon at the ready. Light from the corridor flooded in. On his heels were their father and a couple of guards.
His brother checked the open window for further assassins. The guards searched the room, pausing only to light candles; then they followed Dorcan’s instruction to continue the search outside.
Amerish Vorst strode to the shaking figure and clasped him. “Are you hurt, my son?”
Callin’s chest heaved; his hands trembled. Somehow he managed to shake his head. He felt himself go limp. Gently his father picked him up and placed him on the bed.
Dorcan returned from the window. “No others that we can see,” he growled between clenched teeth. “Who was it?”
Callin shook his head.
“Who indeed?” boomed a new voice from the door. All eyes swivelled to the sound. Then all except Callin stood to attention. The youngest Vorst attempted to rise but his legs failed him and he collapsed back on the bed.
King Rhomic strode into the room, his massive personal blade in his hand. Behind him marched a small retinue of men-at-arms and, behind them, Soth, also armed. The king sat beside Callin and stared hard into his eyes.
“Did you kill him or were you rescued?”
With a massive effort, Callin forced himself to look at the carrion he had just carved out of living flesh.
Dorcan spoke for him. “The intruder was dead when I broke in, sire. That is Callin’s knife in his breast.”
“Callin stood where the body lies,” interjected Amerish Vorst, “he must have struck him down in the struggle.”
Rhomic nodded. He checked the room, noting the gashes in the walls and the shredded bolster. Soth, who had stayed by the door, knelt and examined the body, pulling the dagger out and cleaning it on the man’s black tunic. Then he searched the clothing systematically.
“Well?” The king sounded impatient.
Soth shook his head slowly. “Nothing.”
One by one, Amerish Vorst, Dorcan and the guards examined the body and affirmed their ignorance. Finally the king took a look; then he, too, shook his head.
“The lack of identification suggests a professional assassin,” pointed out Soth.
“Well, Callin, do you know him?” asked the king. He seized the lank hair and held up the dead head for him to see. A face lined and hard, blanched and set in the anguish in which he died. Callin looked briefly again and then shook his head. “To the best of my knowledge, I have no enemies.”
The king listened gravely. “I think we can safely assume that you have one. We will have to look to your security until we can find the culprit and bring him to justice.” He rose. “You have done well, young Vorst. I chose a good bodyguard for Avalind.” He clapped the young man heartily on the shoulder and smiled. “We will speak further in the morning. You can spend the rest of the night with your brother. I trust that will be acceptable, Sir Dorcan?”
Dorcan bowed his head willingly. “Certainly, sire.”
“Very well,” continued the king. “I shall post additional guards for your safety. Tomorrow we will set about finding you more appropriate and safer quarters.”
With that, he wheeled and made for the door, where he paused and turned to his son. “Soth,” the prince looked up, “who was captain of the guard tonight?”
“Gench.”
“Have him chained up in the dungeon.”
CHAPTER FOUR
A horrified Avalind rushed to him in the morning. He had scarcely touched a modest breakfast, and was admiring the splendid sword with which the king had insisted on presenting him, when she burst in, firing questions about his injuries, invocations to the Almighty for his preservation, punctuated by indignant outbursts concerning Gench’s incompetence and assassination generally.
He listened as long as he could, summoning his essential good manners to allow her womanly ire to quench itself.
“What?” She looked surprised.
“I was there.”
She glared at him furiously before a twinkle came into her eye and she permitted herself a giggle. “I’m sorry, but I was so worried for you. Soth told me about it this morning. I don’t know how I could have slept through it.”
Callin grimaced. “Just be grateful that you did. Your father and brother have vowed to unearth whoever it was before they have a chance to hire another one.”
“Amen to that,” she agreed, “I still can’t understand how you won with the odds so stacked in his favour.”
“Neither can I,” he lied, shuddering at the memory.
“You must have been talking to the Hag?”
He started, a sudden sick feeling lurching into his stomach. “What?”
“The Hag,” she laughed, her infectious mood lightening the atmosphere immediately. “It’s a legend. She’s said to make warriors mighty in return for unimaginable favours. All nonsense of course.”
“Of course,” he muttered inadequately, looking away suddenly.
She crossed to the window. They were in Dorcan’s room, but he had departed, tactfully, on her arrival. “I’m proud of you, Callin,” she said at last, “my father told me this morning that you are to stay in Brond to complete your training and look after me.” She turned from the window, leaning back against the sill, the early sun sending sparks through her cascading tresses. “I couldn’t hope for a better companion,” she smiled.
The sight of her framed in the window made his heart lurch. He wondered if she was aware how truly beautiful she was.
“It’s a sunny morning,” he said. “Would you like to go riding?”
*
“It’s Master Vorst, isn’t it?”
Callin looked up from the bale of hay on which he had been waiting for the princess. “Do I know you?”
The man was elderly, yet still spry and wore the garments of an artisan. “Begging your pardon, Master Vorst, my name is Sigimond Vland, Master Glazier. I was wondering if I might be of service to you.”
“In what way?”
“May I ask, sir,” grovelled the man, “is that your new window up there?”
Callin looked where Vland pointed and nodded.
“I see that it isn’t glazed yet. If you wish it, sir, I would be happy to make a glazed pane for your window.”
Callin shook his head. “In this hot weather, a room gets stuffy enough.”
The man wrung his hands. “Forgive me, sir, I did not explain. The window would not be ready for several months yet, by which time the winter snows will be sweeping down from the mountains. It gets cruel cold here at the end of the year.”
Callin had not thought of that. “Why would it take so long?”
Vland smiled his most professional grimace. “Kingdom glass is unique, sir. Other countries use the vulgar method of burning sand but our glass is special. My workshop is but a little way off. I would be honoured if you were to allow me to show you.”
Avalind would not be ready for a good half-hour yet and he had nothing else to do. “All right, Vland, lead on.”
Delighted, the man scuttled ahead of him to a low wooden door set in the opposite wall. It swung open with a slight creak. The room was dingy but, as Callin’s eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he discovered that it was much larger than he had, at first thought. The walls were lined with jars of very coarse salt and vats of water. In the centre of the room was a huge table on which rested four large wooden trays. In each of these floated a pane of glass, one almost clear, and the others in various stages of patterning, as if frosted. Vland indicated them with pride. Towards the back of the room were further tables where finished panes were being engraved or stained by Vland’s apprentices.
“Kingdom glass, sir. These are already ordered, or I would be happy to supply you with one, but I will be able to start yours when this one is grown,” he said, indicating the clearest pane.
“Grown?” asked Calli
n.
“Yes, sir,” replied Vland. “We grow our glass from crystals suspended in fluid. We always use water from the old spring in the forest. It contains minerals that the regular springs — the ones that feed the reservoir — don’t possess. That water is only used for glass making, sir. These minerals assist in the clarification process. At first the crystals grow towards each other. That’s what makes the frosted appearance. When they meet, however, they meld and clear, forming a perfectly smooth surface, which allows a view through without distortion. It is the finest glass in the world.”
“How interesting,” said Callin. He reached forward to touch one of the frosted panes.
“Please don’t touch it, sir, begging your pardon,” cried Vland quickly, “until the pane is finished, the crystals are razor sharp. They would lacerate your hand even if you only touched the surface lightly. Once the process is finished, though, the glass is perfectly safe. It is also much stronger than vulgar glass and will often withstand a stone being thrown at it.”
“I see,” mused Callin. “And the crystals only grow in water from the old spring?”
“Oh no, sir,” smiled Vland ingratiatingly, “they will grow in any liquid, but they will only achieve perfection in that water.”
“What happens if you use something else?” asked Callin innocently.
“They do not meld,” replied the man complacently, “but remain as razor sharp shards, use to neither man nor beast.”
“Really?” muttered Callin, reaching for a jar from a shelf. “Are these the crystals?”
“Yes, sir, they are.”
“They look like palliative salts.”
The man laughed ingratiatingly. “To an unaccustomed eye, they do, sir. The craftsman, however, can distinguish. They are coarser than the medical salts, which have a faint, but distinct, odour. That’s how we know. They are mined in the mountains a little way to the north here. Palliative salts are mined outside Graan.”
Callin was impressed. “If I order a window from you, how long will it take to grow?”
“Well, sir,” Vland indicated the clear pane, “this one will be finished within the next two or three days, whereupon the tray will be free to grow yours. If I start immediately, your pane should be ready just before the first snows.”
“Very good, Vland, let it be so.” Callin turned to go, then paused. “Oh, and Vland, I should like a window that opens so that the room will not be too stuffy in the summer.”
“That will not be a problem, sir” smiled Vland, “I’ll have the farrier knock you up a fine frame and hinges in good time. He often does frame work for me.”
*
There was a relaxed air about Castle Brond as they rode forth an hour later. She was in an infectious mood, her hair streaming in the breeze, and was almost through the gates before he realised she was stealing a march on him.
“Catch up before I get lost!”
Her laughter floated back through a cloud of dust. Together they flew down the street, past the cathedral and out onto the plain. Once there, she flashed him a golden smile and raced off in the direction of the forest.
“Here we go,” he moaned inwardly, “nursemaid to brigands’ bait.” For a moderate equestrian, she could keep up a remarkable turn of speed without falling off. ‘More of the legendary Vandamm family pluck,’ he thought. ‘Just don’t try to turn too quickly.’
He was still trailing her when she plunged under the eaves. Callin had to duck to avoid flying branches as he surged after her, but she seemed able to keep out of their way without ducking. Summoning his supposedly superior skills, he concentrated his mind and thundered in pursuit.
He was gaining on her rapidly when the attack came.
A great weight struck him in the middle of the back and propelled him through the air, his horse careering off in a different direction. He crashed heavily into a tree trunk and slumped to the ground with a crunch. Through agonised eyes, he saw the princess’s mount rear in terror, its squealing burden unable to control the panicking beast as she fell. He glimpsed an assailant closing in on her. Then a savage kick stretched him on the ground. This time, however, his training took over his numbed senses and he rolled automatically as a ragged, swarthy brigand, rusty dagger in hand, launched himself straight at him. His training rolled him again, so as not to be pinned under the man. Only the man did not land. The body floated over him. It hung in the air, flailing furiously with its arms and legs, incredulity twisting his repulsive, bristly features.
Callin was on his feet in an instant. The brigand saw the swing, his small eyes widening in fear. A sound like a rending marrow clapped on the air, the body bursting asunder as the blade passed clean through it. The two halves flopped to the ground, twitching separately, to lie prone at last in their converging dark pools. The words of the Hag came back to him.
I will grant you strength and protection immediately.
Appalled at his own butchery, new thoughts flashed through his mind. Such strength? Then immediately — Avalind!
Being lighter, she had rolled when she hit the ground and came to a halt already on her knees. Gasping, she took in her assailant’s approach and backed off into the bole of a tree. There she knelt, unarmed and helpless.
The man was powerfully built. His clothing, although ragged and dirty, had once been of a respectable cut. His sword, though, was well maintained: the tool of his trade. The blade rose, sunlight flashing on its honed edge, its gleam reflecting in his eyes. She saw hatred in their depths: brutal, simple, granite hatred. Her own eyes scorched, a wave of raw emotion flooding through her. Her breath gagged in her throat as she fought for a calming word that would not come. A hot tear trickled onto her cheek.
The blade paused at the zenith of its arc. The brigand took in the sight of her, as if he were seeing her anew, and it stilled him. Slowly the hatred died in his eyes as the malice leached from him. His lip began to tremble. A multitude of hard lines softened and the blade fell to the ground by his feet.
Then he was clubbed to the ground. Callin Vorst stood over him with his sword reversed in his grip. He knelt beside Avalind and held out his gloved hand.
“My Lady, are you hurt?”
Not daring to speak, she managed to shake her head as she took his hand and rose unsteadily. She could not take her eyes from the prone form on the ground. Her breath came only in short gasps, but she managed to stammer a few words. “Who — who are they?”
“Brigands,” replied Callin.
She looked where he had come from. A sick feeling lurched in her stomach. The flies were feasting already. Still trembling and freshly horrified, she gestured at the other brigand prone at her feet.
“Is this one dead?”
“I doubt it.” Callin examined the unconscious brigand and announced that his heart was beating soundly. Freeing a couple of leather thongs from his belt, he bound the man’s hands and feet tightly. “There. Even if he comes to, there won’t be much he can do like that.” He smiled. “With your leave, ma’am, I will retrieve the horses.”
He returned leading both mounts by their reins. Solicitously, he helped Avalind into her saddle then slung the brigand across his own. The man began to moan but a further clout from the pommel of Callin’s sword silenced him.
“Save your moaning for when they stretch your neck tomorrow, brigand,” he snarled.
*
Kubelik Furak stood over his opponent, his eyes glowing in anticipation of the kill. The other man lay on his back, chest heaving, eyes wide, beads of perspiration trickling from his brow and his sword out of reach. It would have done him little good in his hand because it was deliberately blunted and his other arm was strapped to his side. Kubelik’s lips curled into a cruel smile as he drove the point of his blade beneath the man’s breastbone and up into his heart, despatching his first victim in the Draal School of Death.
*
The cell was dark and cold. The young man paced the floor, finishing up immediately under the barred window yet
again. It was just a short jump to stare out into the black void that he knew contained freedom. He could smell the fresh grass and summer flowers in the meadow. Their scent contrasted sharply with the stench of decay and death that pervaded his prison. When he released his grip on the bars and fell back, the scent disappeared, unable to penetrate the rank miasma that surrounded a condemned man.
He knew the distant hammering: a gallows being constructed in the courtyard from where the good folk of Brond would watch him die by strangulation in the morning. Already he could feel the rough fibre of the rope scraping his skin, tugging at his bristles. Already he could imagine the sickening stretch when they kicked the stool away.
He had faced death in the past, but always with a fighting chance of survival, always with a weapon to hand and a foe to strive against. Never before had he known the despair of the condemned criminal: to be slaughtered without pity; to be forced into eternity by an impassive man in black for the amusement of others.
Wearily he turned his back to the window wall and slid down into a sitting position, laughing bitterly at the sheer irony of his situation. He was to be hanged for a crime that had not actually occurred. The bitch still lived, didn’t she? At least he had survived longer than Lork. That bastard had hacked him in two with a single stroke.
Sounds came from without, mailed feet scraping on stone. Through the small grille in the cell door he could discern the flicker of an approaching torch.
Not yet! He sprang for the window, both hands closing on the bars tightly. He hauled himself upwards and glared out. The cell faced east, a cynical reminder to the condemned of the approaching dawn. The clean smell of the meadow came back to him momentarily. Darkness. The sun was still hours away. What did they want?
The footsteps stopped outside the door. He was alert, ready for a spring, a rush, any last act of defiance that might earn him an honourable end here in the cell rather than that dreadful journey to the rope. He was chained to the wall. The chains were long enough for him to move about the cell, but escape was impossible.