A Blackbird In Silver (Book 1)

by Freda Warrington

  ‘Ashurek! He’s only a child!’ Estarinel exclaimed. There had been no fear in the boy’s face, only malignant hatred. But the sound of Estarinel’s voice seemed to break the spelI, and he began to breathe quickly, going limp with terror.

  Ashurek pulled the youth violently to his feet, then threw him down onto a mound of hay. He handed the dagger back, and the boy took it, humiliated because they all knew he would not dare to use it again.

  ‘I don’t blame you for trying to kill me,’ said the Gorethrian prince, ‘but you do understand my instinct to preserve my own life?’

  The boy, now sulkily silent, sat up and began picking bits of hay from his clothes, trying to regain his dignity. Estarinel and Medrian looked on curiously as Ashurek sat beside him, and asked, ‘Well? What is it you want?’

  The young man, realising he was no longer in imminent danger of death, took on some of his arrogance again. ‘I want to know what’s going on.’

  ‘A common human problem,’ said Ashurek.

  ‘You are no Belhadrians – coming out of the night, complaining of thirst in this rain, and hiding a Gorethrian among you…’

  So, we’re in Belhadra, Ashurek thought. He said, ‘We are only three travellers, and I did not wish to startle you by my presence.’

  ‘Travellers? A Forluinishman and a Gorethrian travelling together, and through Belhadra? Come now!’

  ‘It must appear strange, but there’s a simple explanation,’ Estarinel put in. ‘We were stranded on the White Plane, and when we escaped to Earth, the Exit Point happened to leave us near your farm.’

  ‘I see,’ said the boy, his mind working briskly. ‘That still does not explain who you are or what–’

  ‘And that is none of your business,’ the Gorethrian said softly. The boy glanced nervously at his dark face, remembering that the Forluinishman had calIed him Ashurek. That was a royal name… the name, in fact, of the Emperor’s notorious brother, who was reputed to be wandering alone across Tearn after his mysterious disappearance.

  If I delivered him, Prince Ashurek, to Her – his face heated with excitement at the idea.

  ‘When I came up here,’ he continued, affecting an arrogant drawl to mask the tremor in his voice, ‘it was not with the intention of killing anyone, Prince Ashurek.’

  ‘Ah, you know who I am suddenly.’

  ‘An educated guess… but when I saw you, I let my emotions get the better of me. It was foolish of me and I apologise.’ Ashurek said nothing in reply, only went on staring at him. ‘I, er – I came in fact to help you.’

  ‘The only help we need from you is somewhere to sleep, and the chance, perhaps,’ broke in Medrian.

  ‘Presumably you want to continue your journey,’ the boy went on, ‘and you will need provisions, maps, weapons, and so on.’ He waited for agreement, but they only watched him, not reacting. Hate stirred again in him and his foxy eyes hardened. ‘It would be my pleasure to escort you to Beldaega-Hal, the nearest town, there to conduct you to the finest merchants, so that you may travel on swiftly and fully equipped.’

  ‘And how will you profit from this venture?’ Ashurek enquired.

  ‘I’m going there anyway, but perhaps it will make up in some degree for my foolishness,’ he replied with what he hoped was impressive coolness.

  ‘What a touching change of heart.’ Ashurek grinned dangerously.

  ‘Just let me know,’ the youth said, affecting imperious indifference as he moved towards the hatch. ‘I will be riding out first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Very well. Now let us rest.’

  The young man began to descend the ladder. He felt he had, albeit clumsily, got them in his control, and dared not risk outstaying his welcome. ‘I’ll bid you good night then. Oh – my name is Skord,’ he added as he disappeared from view.

  Ashurek closed the hatch. ‘He was spying on us, that’s for sure,’ he said. ‘We may as well ride to the town with him, though.’

  ‘He tried to kill you,’ said Estarinel.

  ‘That was unpremeditated, I’m sure. As he said, just a foolish loss of control. Not that I trust the devious wretch.’

  ‘Why go with him, then?’

  ‘We need weapons and maps for our journey. Think; how can we now reach the Blue Plane?’

  ‘Return to Forluin, and ask for help again, I suppose,’ Estarinel sighed.

  ‘Exactly. So we need to find our way to the river-mouth in Excarith, find a ship, and sail for the open sea. The boy can help us in that; I will see to it. And if he has other plans for us, I’d be interested to know what they are.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Estarinel, extinguishing the lamp. ‘I suppose you are right, he is probably harmless enough.’

  Medrian knew Ashurek was wrong, but she felt cold and could not seem to speak.

  The next morning, dawn came pale and misty, falling on a turfed hill crowned by a tangle of farm buildings, with a copse falling away on its western flank. Behind it, fields stretched away for miles to a soft horizon.

  Estarinel emerged from the stables and went to the door of the small farmhouse. He knocked. There was a long pause and the grey-haired woman answered, looking distraught.

  ‘Good lady, excuse me,’ began Estarinel, ‘may I speak with your son?’

  The woman looked upset. There were dark circles beneath her watery eyes. ‘Skord? I’ve not seen him since midnight. Ridden out on one of his accursed errands, and his father returned with the sickness of Her anger upon him–’

  ‘Are you in need of help?’ Estarinel asked in concern.

  ‘Help? No, no.’ The woman collected herself, pushing back strands of hair from her tired face. ‘Just let me give you this warning: stay no longer in Belhadra, but make due east for the border. To work for Her or against Her is certain ruin. What treachery my husband worked I know not, but her plague is upon him.’

  Estarinel was beginning to think the woman was mad. But he looked into her eyes and saw simple fear, not madness. ‘Go,’ she urged. ‘Go before my son returns. He works for Her.’

  ‘Who is “She”?’

  ‘Do you not know? Then it is better you are not told.’ She broke off and stared past him down the hill. Estarinel turned and there was the arrogant boy in purple and blue, mounted on a showy chestnut that pranced towards the farmhouse.

  ‘Good morning!’ called Skord. His mother pushed past Estarinel and ran to meet him.

  ‘Skord!’ she cried. ‘Your father returned in the night; he is ill!’

  The boy looked unsurprised. He jumped off his mount and pushed the reins at Estarinel.

  ‘Hold the mare,’ he said, and went into the house. Estarinel left the chestnut to graze and followed them into the house, across the living room and through an oak door into a tiny bedroom. There a man lay on a low wooden bed, deathly faced, sweating, with jaundiced eyes. Sores were on his neck and arms.

  ‘A fever, Skord.’ the woman began, but he interrupted with no emotion in his voice.

  ‘Mother, you know as well as I that it is Her plague. Do you think I didn’t know of his treachery? Well, now her fair punishment is upon him.’

  His mother stared at him as if seeing a blinding truth.

  ‘You betrayed him to Her! You! His very son!’ she screamed. She staggered back against the wall, weeping.

  ‘Someone’s son,’ muttered Skord to himself, putting a hand over his forehead. Then he saw Estarinel. ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded.

  ‘Perhaps I can help your father. I have some knowledge of herbs.’

  Skord laughed without humour. ‘No herbs will touch his affliction. The Dark Regions for him!’ He put his face close to his mother’s ear and whispered, ‘That’s the penalty, eh mother?’

  She turned and tugged pathetically at his robes. ‘Skord! Make Her leave him be! Don’t let Her harm us.’ Her desperate weeping wrenched Estarinel’s heart.

  For a moment there was a note of genuine regret in Skord’s voice. ‘If only I could…’ He glanced at Estarin
el. ‘Saddle your horses. We ride in half an hour’s time.’

  ‘You can’t leave your parents in this state!’ Estarinel exclaimed. ‘Ye gods, what are you thinking?’

  ‘It is no business of yours. Mother! Pull yourself together. Find some more riding clothes and prepare us provisions. And don’t try to poison me again; I showed you mercy the first time, but not again.’

  The woman stood up and walked wordlessly into the kitchen, scrubbing at her face in a wretched manner that was terrible to see.

  ‘Come on,’ said Skord to the Forluinishman, following her.

  Estarinel bent down to the sick man. ‘What is wrong with you? Who is this “She” they speak of?’

  The man groaned and foam drooled from his lips. Estarinel sighed, wishing desperately that he knew what to do. Straightening up, he murmured, ‘Was it misfortune that brought us here, or the Worm itself?’

  #

  ‘It’s unbelievable – the callousness of the boy to leave his mother in a state of hysteria and his father dying,’ Estarinel told Ashurek and Medrian as they readied the horses. ‘She seems to think the father’s illness is Skord’s fault as well. I can’t believe it.’

  ‘The truth is, everyone outside Forluin is mad,’ said Ashurek, not altogether pleasantly. Estarinel glared at him, genuinely angry. ‘Estarinel, let them be,’ Ashurek said more gently. ‘It’s none of our business; they must sort out their own problems.’

  ‘How can you say that? They need our help.’

  ‘There’s nothing we can do! They are doomed – I know the Worm’s work,’ the Gorethrian said. Medrian glanced oddly at him, then busied herself with her horse’s halter. ‘These are but symptoms of the underlying disease.’

  ‘But–’ Estarinel persisted.

  ‘We leave this place behind, forget it, and ride with Skord. Don’t argue!' Ashurek said, sharp but good-natured.

  Estarinel looked round at Medrian, but she seemed cold again, closed to him. ‘We must go,’ she said shortly.

  ‘Very well.’ Estarinel took a slow breath. ‘I am forced to trust your judgment. I only hope you are right.’

  Morning activity on the farm was growing. A herd of dun cows ambled past to be milked. The voices of farmhands could be heard, with no hint in their cheerful banter that they knew anything was wrong. The door of the farmhouse was open and Estarinel saw, as he led Shaell out, three women entering.

  Skord, already mounted on his fine chestnut mare, appeared round the corner of the house and hailed him. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I know that you, for some obscure reason, are worried about my parents. You think I’m irresponsibly leaving them? You need not worry; I’m leaving our good neighbours to look after them. Does this satisfy you?’

  The mocking tone in Skord’s voice antagonised Estarinel. ‘You’re a heartless child,’ he replied in a low voice. ‘No doubt your parents will be better off with you gone.’

  Skord ignored this remark as his mother came to the doorway. She appeared calm; her face was expressionless but her eyes were red and her mouth sagged.

  ‘Here; a saddlebag with provisions for four,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘Take it and get you gone. Go to Her, then; and if you wish you can tell Her that I condone your father’s treachery. You need not come back here, for you are no son of ours.’

  ‘No, that’s true,’ Skord said cryptically.

  Anger flashed on his face as she turned to Estarinel and said, ‘I tried to warn you, and I am truly sorry for you.’

  ‘Mother–’ Skord began, but Ashurek appeared and interrupted.

  ‘There is no need to fear for us, madam, we can look after ourselves. And if there’s a way to help you, we’ll find it.’

  The appearance of a Gorethrian before Skord’s mother seemed the last blow. She uttered a low moan and fainted. One of the peasant women caught her and, giving Skord a sour look, slammed the door in their faces.

  #

  The country of Belhadra was a large, pastoral land in central Tearn, warm and rainy. Its cities were few and modest and most of its inhabitants were farmers. It was a hilly country of grassland, swamps and forests; wet and fertile. Belhadra was also deep in superstition and mystery, not without cause. There was a mystical city of glass, reputed to lie just north of the equator, that few had ever seen. The city was concealed amid forests, hills and waterfalls, protected from man so that it could fulfil its delicate function. But, in this age of the Serpent, it seemed it was not protected well enough.

  A sprinkle of fine rain fell through the light cool mist of the morning, a mist that turned everything pale yellow, green and eggshell blue. A faint harmony of birdsong filled the air, against which the clear notes of a blackbird rose and fell away. Watery sunlight turned the mist pale gold.

  The hooves of the four horses brushed the long, dew-soaked grass as they went at a brisk walk down the far slope of the hill, heading north and slightly west. The four riders came down into the Beldaega Vale, with its network of fields, tangles of exotic trees, thin rivers and scattered clusters of buildings. First rode Skord, now in rich travelling gear of embroidered cloth in shades of lilac and blue. His mount, the proud and fiery golden-chestnut mare, looked superb. The other three rode a little behind him, Estarinel on his noble, silver-brown stallion, Ashurek on Vixata who went skittishly, shining with shifting metallic colours, then Medrian on the ill-looking, sullen black nameless one.

  Their saddles had been lost on the White Plane, so they rode bareback, with halters in place of bridles. They were unarmed, except that Ashurek had in his belt the short blue-hafted dagger that Estarinel had found on Hrannekh Ol. That dry plane had left both them and their horses weak, so it was a slow ride through the pale, misty morning. Skord would often drift ahead and wait, impatiently, for them to catch up.

  They stopped to drink at a shallow stream running glassily over mica, then rode on across farmland. The Vale seemed a paradise of scintillating colours and the scent of moist earth a revelation after the White Plane.

  Sunlight was sparkling through the rain as they rode into a wood of grizzly trees. Young leaves clustered on the twisted branches, but the ground was thick with leaf mould, with creepers and rampant wild flowers and binding weeds. Skord led them along a stony track that wound round the brink of a chasm. Below they saw a small lake, lying still and stagnant with steep walls rising all around it; dregs in a granite cup. Skord rode dangerously close to the edge.

  ‘It was a quarry,’ he said, his voice sudden and strange in the stillness.

  The trees gave way to pasture, and they rode for many miles until at last they came to the crest of a hill and entered a tall, charcoal-black forest. A squirrel ran before them in the twilight as they led their horses to a camping-place. It had been a fine day, but now there was something oppressive in the air, a black electricity crackling between the skeletal trees.

  They lit a fire and ate the bread and meat Skord’s mother had provided, Estarinel trying to forget his words, Don’t try to poison me. Then they prepared to sleep.

  ‘We’ll take it in turns to keep watch,’ said Ashurek.

  ‘There are no wild animals big enough to eat us alive,’ the youth scoffed.

  ‘I was not thinking of wild animals,’ Ashurek said icily.

  Skord glared at him with barely veiled hatred. ‘Please yourselves. Keep watch between you,’ he snapped with an arrogant wave of his hand. He turned over and went straight to sleep.

  Estarinel, keeping the last watch, looked out over the embers of the waning fire. He thought of his sister, Arlena, and of Falin, Edrien and Luatha, who even now must be alone on the cold sea, on their way home to Forluin. How many days would it take them? Perhaps the Serpent had sent a storm to swallow them too… but no, the image of them arriving home was stronger. He could see Arlena greeting their mother in the doorway.

  ‘We took him there, and he boarded The Star of Filmoriel with two dark-haired strangers.’

  The two women looked at each other, the two women he l
oved so dearly; and to his shock he heard his mother reply, ‘Lothwyn is well, but your father died…’

  Estarinel shook his head, trying to subdue his thoughts. ‘Only my imagination,’ he told himself. He tried to concentrate on his task, but exhaustion took him into an uneasy sleep, and for an hour he writhed under the pressure of nightmares, unable to wake himself.

  Arrows of silver rain drove into his body, and he realised he was awake, and the nightmare was real. A violent storm had broken. As he sat up he could hear Skord shouting.

  ‘Wake up, all of you! Get up! I thought someone was keeping watch, damn it.’ He had saddled his horse and was trying to mount as it danced.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Medrian shouted back. ‘It’s only a storm. Why the panic?’

  ‘This forest is not the place to be in a storm!’ Skord said insistently. ‘Come on – mount your horses. Don’t stand staring! Quickly!’

  There was nothing to do but humour him. A minute later they were mounted and following Skord at a brisk canter. It was a nightmare ride, swerving and twisting round tree trunks, while the forest reached out all its tendrils and gnarled, brittle fingers to hamper them. They chased Skord blindly, the horses stumbling in the undergrowth and blowing hard in fear.

  After what seemed an age, they left the forest; and as they came out from the cover of trees, the full force of the storm hit them.

  A sheet of ice-cold water cut across them like a steel wall. The sky screamed and thrashed, spewing out a wind that tried to pin them to the tortured ground. Eyes screwed up against the rain, they ploughed forward. The ground was treacherous, running with rivulets of water. The night was no longer pitch dark. Blood-red lightning was blazing along the leaden banks of cloud.

  A foul discoloration flooded the atmosphere; and in that moment they all became part of a horrific vision. They were phantasms blown across the battleground of a cosmic war. A hole yawned open into the domain of the Serpent itself; and the writhing sky was the Serpent, drowning the world in its sick power and ancient, impassive cruelty.