by David Waine
If Count Amerish’s oration had been moving, Dorcan’s was a revelation. He spoke of his brother’s calm acceptance of the heavy responsibility that he bore, and that he must now assume the same. He had not looked for the day when he must shoulder that yoke, but he would undertake it as Simack had and as their father had done before them.
“My brother will not be forgotten!” he concluded.
It then dawned on Callin that he was expected to say something. Expectant eyes stared at him. His throat went dry. A soft hand, Avalind’s, pushed him gently in the back. Mounting a couple of steps, he swallowed, listened remotely to the hammering of his heart, took a deep breath, opened his mouth — and almost confessed.
In the end he managed to mumble something about how sorry he was that Simack had been taken so young, that he had been a good fellow really and didn’t deserve what had happened to him. A couple more faltering, incoherent statements and he was back where he had started and the archbishop had taken over.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Flowers decked all the corridors of Brond again. News of Avalind’s conduct during Simack’s decline had reached the king, who recalled her at once. It fell to Callin and his men at arms to escort her home, naturally. The sight of that sublime, tightly clad form, league after league, lit from every possible angle by the passing sun, was a heavy strain.
*
Lissian Dumarrick settled back among her cushions and crushed another handful of grapes into her mouth. They made a fitting sweetmeat, with which to end her snack, following the expensively imported anchovies, cold mutton and bread. Already she had devoured two whole bunches and was beginning to think that this much would keep her comfortable until they stopped for lunch at the next way station.
“Driver!”
A head appeared by the window. “Ma’am?”
“How far to the next way station?”
“Shouldn’t take more than two or three hours.”
She knew these servile liars. Three hours at the very least. How was she supposed to dazzle Brond society emaciated by starvation? She found a few disconnected grapes and stuffed them into her mouth. Pleasant taste and texture but insubstantial fodder, grapes.
A familiar sensation: a swelling in her nether regions. The gases were gathering for an escape attempt. Settling herself comfortably on her cushions, she wedged one side of her rear firmly and moved the opposite buttock marginally away from it.
Closing her eyes, she let forth a mellifluous, fruity reverberation, tainted with her own unmistakable reek. An invisible cloud filled the carriage. Flaring her nostrils ecstatically, she drew in the miasma before it filtered away through the light curtains.
She lay back, luxuriating in her own atmosphere, unaware of the peril looming on both sides of her carriage.
Softly they came, gathering in the trees on either side of the road, waiting for the gully where they knew their advantage would be overwhelming. Her vanguard consisted of but two men at arms while her rearguard had only twice that number. A further armed man sat with the driver atop the carriage. It was a lady’s coach. One brief attack and the treasures would be theirs.
Lissian’s hunger was sated at last. She could contemplate her next meal with anticipation, rather than yearning. With her mind off food for a moment, she cast around for something else to occupy it. Her father had supplied her with books to pass the time on her journey, not that she intended to read them, although they could be useful if she found difficulty in sleeping. She was not sleepy yet, however. Perhaps the view would be worth the effort of moving from her position.
The curtain to her left billowed inwards and ripped, an arrow thudded into the front bulkhead of the carriage ahead of her and stayed there, quivering. At almost the same moment the coach lurched forward as the driver cracked the reins and urged the horses into a run. Cries and screams fell on her ears. Astonished, she crept forward, farts escaping at a rate that surprised even her. She ventured a tremulous look outside. The world was full of arrows.
She must not panic; she had seven men at arms to protect her. There was a clash of steel, further screams, the pounding of hooves, and the thud of a heavy body hitting the ground. Six. The carriage lurched sideways and she felt herself falling. She crashed heavily against the rear bulkhead, injuring her nose on a wooden projection. Before her eyes a hand flopped into view. Blood dripped from its mailed sleeve and the fingertips twitched. Five.
Silence. Cool breeze. Her eyes flickered open. The ripped curtain still billowed. She felt her nose gingerly, where it was sore. Her fingers came away red. The floor of her carriage stood at a crazy angle and she lay in an undignified heap at its very bottom. A wheel must have come off. Why did her protectors not come to her aid? The hand no longer twitched. What of her assailants? Was she abandoned out here alone and unprotected in the wilderness? Prey to brigands? Prey to wolves?
Footsteps approaching. Her heart stopped for a moment, and then began pounding intensely.
The curtain was ripped aside. Instinctively she flinched away, the back of one hand covering her mouth.
He was bestial. Lewd, bloodshot eyes stared at her out of a filthy, bristly face. A slavering mouth opened to reveal mouldy stumps of teeth in a ridge of sickly gum.
She cowered back. The leer that spread over the face could have but a single intent. The lips smacked together before allowing a sticky tongue to lick them.
She heard his hands fumbling with something. The buckle of his belt! She was transfixed with horror. She had long anticipated the surrender of her virtue, willingly and lovingly, by moonlight and candles, to some handsome prince, surrendering herself to him from a bottomless well of love. To be ripped apart by this brute, however…
What prince would come near her now?
Hoof beats. A saviour? The brigand took no notice. Worrying sign. There were cries and a clash of steel, so it was not yet over. The creature completed unbuckling his belt and dropped his breeches to the ground. He wore nothing beneath them. Lissian screwed her eyes shut. Hoof beats. She felt the rancid breath move closer. Hoof beats and a thud. She was now hard up against the bulkhead. The carriage lurched as he climbed in with her. She could retreat no more. Still the man came on, stinking his way towards her. She felt the tip of his tongue lick the end of her bloody nose. She turned her head in disgust. Hoof beats again, loud now. A swish. The rotten lips crushed against hers and a warm, sticky mess splashed across her chest.
Already? Shouldn’t she have felt a stabbing pain between her legs? Shouldn’t she have felt something? She opened one eye. The hideous face was still next to hers on the cushion but its eyes were turning upwards in their sockets. The sticky mess on her bodice, she discovered, was dark red in colour. Tubes sprouted from the severed neck.
Her first scream muffled the sound of the returning hoof beats. It was not until they stopped outside her carriage that she became aware of the rider dismounting and approaching. She shut her eyes again.
Through the pink haze of her eyelids, she beheld the darkening as the shadow fell across her. Silence. The shadow remained where it was. Cautiously, she opened one eye.
A black figure stood before her. It was all in black and unadorned. It gripped a gleaming weapon, dripping red, in its right hand, the point to the ground. She opened the other eye and stared at the face, hardly daring to hope. Then she screamed.
There was no face.
The head was as black and featureless as the body.
CHAPTER NINE
Master Treasor adjusted his robes and regarded his new class. An elderly academic, more suited to poetry and philosophy than military strategy, his calling had him training men of action, rather than contemplation. Sometimes he thought that a religious seminary would have been his ideal employment, had he been more than vaguely religious.
Autumnal afternoon sunlight shone in shafts through the windows onto the tired faces gathered before him. An average class in his opinion, they had spent all morning knocking each other to pieces in the hope
of gaining Master Gallen's approval.
This was Treasor’s favourite season. The new academic year had begun and young minds were eager for knowledge. All would change, of course, when winter descended in a couple of months.
Gallen had no such problem, partly because the pupils were terrified of him, but mainly because his subject involved hitting one another with heavy objects. His own, however, was military strategy, a poor second best to beating seven bells out of one's friends. His other colleague, Ferian, fared even worse. How on earth did one instruct red-blooded young hotheads in chivalry? Their natural instincts towards pretty girls bore no resemblance. Why did education so often defy nature?
One student looked reasonably alert. He sat at the front, a scroll of blank parchment before him.
“Young man,” he said in his dry voice. “What is your name?”
The young man rose respectfully. “Callin Vorst, sir.”
“Ah yes.” Treasor settled himself behind his large desk, tapping the tips of his fingers together just beneath his nose. “They tell me you are doing well.”
“Thank you, sir,” confirmed Callin.
“He wins at everything, sir,” volunteered a voice from the back.
“Do you indeed?” flashed back Treasor, his eyes glinting. “That is remarkable.”
*
“Chivalry is the essence of knighthood,” intoned Master Ferian, his robes flapping behind him as he strode between the rows of scribbling pupils. “Swinging swords and donning armour is all very well. Without chivalry, however, it is mere brutality and show.” He paused for the scribbling quills to catch up. “What is the prime requirement of a knight?”
Various hands rose cautiously into the air. Callin’s was one of them.
“Yes, er…?” Master Ferian rarely bothered to learn the names of his pupils.
“To serve my sovereign honourably and bravely in whatever just cause may arise, to uphold justice, to right wrongs, to defend the weak and to crush the oppressor,” quoted the young man he had indicated.
Ferian nodded sagely. “The Oath of Fealty. But what does it mean?”
This question was greeted with a nervous silence. He perched himself, nimbly for a man of his years, on the edge of his desk and scrutinised his charges closely.
Simian’s hand crept up. “Master Ferian,” he said deferentially, “it strikes me as curious that the only part of the oath that refers directly to violent action — the bit about crushing the oppressor — comes right at the end.”
Ferian’s eyebrows rose. Intelligence! “And why is that?”
Simian took a deep breath. “I wondered whether it was put there to underline to us that violence is a knight’s last resort.”
To Simian’s astonishment, Ferian clapped his hands together. “Excellent, excellent!” he cried, genuinely impressed. “Young man, I shall break the habits of a lifetime and ask you your name.”
Simian told him.
“Thank you, Master Treponic. You may sit down.” Turning his attention to the class as a whole, he continued, “Take up your quills.”
There was a soft rustle of activity as his command was obeyed.
“A knight is in a privileged position. As an aristocrat, he has wealth and power; his vassals must obey him. This, in itself, raises issues. If a knight commands a vassal to commit an act that is criminal, immoral — or at least wrong — the vassal is placed in an impossible position. If he obeys his conscience, he rebels against his master; if he obeys his master, he rebels against God. Do not assume that your vassals owe you the greater allegiance.” He paused to allow the scratching of quills to catch up. “That is where chivalry comes in. A true knight will never issue an immoral or evil command. Justice and truth must be his guides. Your duty is to protect those who cannot protect themselves. You are empowered to use force only in absolute need. Slaughter begets only slaughter. Kill an enemy and you create more from his relatives and friends.”
*
“Swing!” roared Master Gallen. The opponent swung his weapon straight at Callin’s head. The parry was easy, but he had to be ready for the follow up blow from the shield arm, intended to leave him open to a lunge. He sidestepped the blow and sent his opponent sprawling. As he fell, the young man lost his grip on his weapon and lay open to a killing stroke from Callin, who promptly sheathed his own sword and helped him to his feet.
Gallen came over, scowling.
“Call that an attack?” he barked at the opponent, who hung his head in shame. “Get back to the racks and practice your swordplay.”
Gallen then turned to Callin. “How many does that make you’ve bested?”
“All of them, sir.”
“All but four of them twice apiece, and those four three times.” There was a slight hint of approval in the scarred face. “You need sterner opponents.”
*
Master Treasor pointed out a large map on the side wall. Taking a long rod, he indicated the largest coloured shape on it. “Draal,” he announced dramatically.
It was yellow and far larger than any of the other coloured shapes. The Kingdom, coloured green, bordered it to the south and looked tiny.
“Draal is the largest state by far, with at least double our population,” went on Treasor. “Of all our neighbouring states, it is the one against which we must be on our guard. Why?”
Two or three hands rose cautiously.
“They are our enemies.”
“They are barbarians.”
“There has always been war between us.”
Callin raised his hand.
“Yes, Master Vorst?”
“Master Treasor, why is there such enmity between us?”
Treasor smiled. He was warming to this pupil. “An astute question. I know that there is at least one transfer here from the Academy at Graan. Please identify yourself.”
The strapping youth, swarthy of appearance, stood up.
“Your name?”
“Keriak Rulik, sir.”
“Please turn to face the rest of the class, Master Rulik.”
Keriak did as he was bid, slowly and somewhat reluctantly, a frown of unease clouding his face.
“Class,” continued Master Treasor, “what do you notice about Master Rulik?”
“He’s bigger than the rest of us.”
“He’s dark, compared with us.”
“He’s a Draal.”
There was a shocked silence. Keriak’s eyes glowered from deep in his dusky face.
Treasor was secretly revelling in the rare opportunity to allow a few sparks to build up in his lesson. “Are you a Draal, Master Rulik?”
Keriak’s reply came through clenched teeth. “Half of Graan’s population is of Draal ancestry, sir, as I am sure you know.”
“So why have you not enrolled in the Draal School of Death?”
Keriak turned proudly to face him. “I am a citizen of the Kingdom and my loyalties lie here.”
Master Treasor smiled and thanked the young man. “Graan, as you know,” he continued, “used to be Draal territory. We gained it twenty years ago, following a war in which its citizens fought for us. We are landlocked. Draal apart, our immediate neighbours are small and friendly. We are protected by mountains here,” the rod jabbed at the map just to the north of Brond. “Graan,” the finger jabbed again at a minute green square on the Draal coast, up against the northern slopes, “is an enclave; it is sovereign Kingdom territory entirely cut off from the rest of our land. Who can tell me its significance?”
Several hands shot up, including those of Callin and Keriak.
“Forgive me, Master Rulik, I would be very disappointed if you did not know that one. Master Vorst?”
“It’s a seaport, sir.”
“Exactly. It is the Kingdom’s only seaport. That is the weakness of our geographical situation. Before its annexation, we had to rely on the goodwill of other nations to allow us to pass trade through their territory, and you can be sure that they made us pay for it.”
“Indeed we do. Graan is connected to Brond by this road here,” his rod traced a wriggling line on the map. “It crosses the mountains here, the Pass of the Cross, the lowest defile and the only one negotiable by large baggage trains or troops. The tolls are renegotiated every year and every year the price goes up.” Heads nodded slowly. “Consider this, however,” he paused dramatically, “Graan provides us with port facilities, and we now have strong army and naval bases on the edge of the Draal plain. Do not underestimate the strategic importance of Graan. Strictly speaking, it is the spoils of war. We could have enslaved them, ground them into dust and taught them who was master.”
Keriak nodded. “That is what Draal would do,” he said slowly.
“Yes,” agreed Treasor, “I am afraid that it is. That is why we adopted a different policy. Graan was accorded full provincial status and, although the city is heavily fortified, its gates stand open to promote free trade with its neighbour.”
Heads nodded slowly. This was sinking in.
“Following the annexation,” explained Master Treasor, “King Rhomic took steps to secure the loyalty of the largely Draal population of Graan by enriching it.” The class settled forward listening. “Graan always had a reputation as a centre of culture.”
“That is true,” interposed Keriak, “the poet, Lubik Sumannan, was born there.”
“He was,” agreed Treasor, “although his poetry was written in Zinal. It was Rhomic Vandamm, however, who erected a statue in his honour and converted the hovel, in which he first saw the light of day, into a shrine. It was Rhomic who founded the Graan Academies, and who converted its dock into the bustling wharves of the major seaport that it has become. If diversity appeals to you, you will find it there. You will also find more fine buildings, parks, taverns and theatres than in any other city of the Kingdom, Brond included.” He paused for a moment to allow the scribbling hands to catch up. “Despite its size and population, Draal is relatively poor. Most of the best land is set aside for grazing herds. They are exceptionally fond of beef, believing that a man’s strength is derived from the amount of meat he consumes. The Kingdom, on the other hand, is far richer per head. Our soil is fertile and our people industrious and healthy. Our home, restored to its original status as a province of Draal, would be a prime jewel in Sulinan’s crown.”