A Blackbird In Silver (Book 1)

by Freda Warrington

  ‘Look – I am going to show you a prophecy. Think me an old fool if you will–’ he was rummaging among piles of books on table and floor. At last he found the one he sought, a small volume hand-bound in brown leather, worn with much use. He opened it at a certain page and set it on the table before them, so they could read the sprawling calligraphy:

  When the three come from the gorge

  Respite from evil shall there be:

  The dead shall not walk in torment

  But find peace in the cold ground.

  Darkness for darkness shall be bargained

  And a half-year’s light issue therefrom.

  They shall come from the gorge

  And by dark birds be taken.

  ‘Who wrote it?’ Ashurek asked.

  ‘My grandfather,’ Setrel replied. ‘He was a mystic and a poet. His family thought him half-mad, though we loved him dearly. This poem of his has always preyed on my mind, ever since I was a child, and especially since our present troubles began.’

  ‘What do you think it means?’ Estarinel asked, with the sinking feeling that it held some kind of truth.

  ‘Well, you say you came from a gorge… and though there were four of you, I don’t believe Skord is truly one of your party. And corpses do walk about, bringing us evil. I think the poem is saying that you can find a way to help us.’ He stroked his long beard, looking at the faces of the three.

  ‘But what about the rest of it – what’s the “half-year’s light”?’ Estarinel said.

  Medrian answered, her voice cold and quiet. ‘It means that if we do save Excarith from Gastada, there is still only six months left before the Serpent has full power over Earth.’

  Setrel himself looked shocked at this. ‘I, ah – never followed the line about the dark birds, either…’

  Medrian was silent.

  ‘Setrel, do not delude yourself,’ Ashurek said, the firelight catching green glints in his eyes. ‘It’s only a poem. A miracle will not save you; only your own bravery can. We cannot stay to help. We have to leave as soon as possible, for our journey becomes ever more urgent.’

  Setrel sighed and sat down, his face lined with worry and premature age. ‘I have to go to the Long Table at Mardrathern tomorrow. I am supposed to report everything, but I won’t mention you. Oh Ashurek, what’s to be done? You know that the Dead Army consists in the main of Gorethrians, killed in the battles across in East Sel-Hadra.’ He drew a weary breath. ‘It was a terrible thing you did when you invaded Tearn – terrible. How are you ever going to make amends?’

  #

  Someone else had once asked Ashurek that question, five years before, and he could not forget the tragedy that had preceded the words. It had been in Drish, that forest-covered country on Tearn’s east coast. The Gorethrian army had invaded from Elegar and from the sea, pouring over the hills in their bronze and black and gold hordes, eyes burning like emeralds and teeth gleaming in cool smiles as they cut down the Drishian soldiers before them. Led by Ashurek, they seemed infected by the electric force that moved him.

  So they came down through Drish, taking its capital, the City of the Eleven Spires. These spires gleamed pale gold and white in the sun, and it was beautiful, as if the Drishians had put all their art and imagination into building this one city. It reminded Ashurek of Shalekahh.

  And now Gorethrians walked its streets, and the hillside below was infested with the colourful hide tents of their encampment, like many poisonous beetles lying in wait.

  The Drishian army, with its tall, swarthy soldiers, had withdrawn. They were re-grouping, Ashurek knew, and there would be at least one more battle to subdue them.

  He sat in his tent, writing swiftly upon parchment. A lamp shone with hazy luminescence upon the rugs and furs, luxuries always provided for the High Commander.

  Ashurek felt no pleasure or pride in the conquest; but around his neck, in a small leather pouch on a chain, hung a tiny blue stone. This motivated him, so that he could form plans and perfect strategies without thinking; whereas any attempt to resist the Egg-Stone’s whims caused him agony.

  He finished the letter and rolled it up, sealing it with wax. He handed it to the thin Gorethrian at his side, saying, ‘Send a messenger to deliver this up to Battalion XII in Elegar. It reports the present situation.’

  General Karadrek, his second-in-command, obeyed the order. When he returned, there was a look of irritated amusement on his thin, hawk-like face.

  ‘Sir, there’s a Drishian outside. He says he wants to speak to you. Shall I have him killed?’ Karadrek asked.

  ‘No,’ said Ashurek, not even looking up. ‘Send him in.’

  Ashurek’s lieutenants brought the man in. He was tall, stockily built, with tangled brown hair and beard. His face was weather-darkened and he wore a knee-length brown tunic belted at the waist, sandals laced up his shins. He seemed nervous but held his head high.

  ‘Sir–’ he began, but the General pushed him to his knees. ‘Address the High Commander as Your Imperial Highness,’ Karadrek said softly.

  ‘Your Imperial Highness,’ the man tried again. ‘I come to throw myself upon your mercy.’

  Ashurek looked hard at him. ‘I have little. What do you want?’

  ‘There – there will be a battle soon. We most humbly request that all children, with their mothers and all those lame or otherwise unfit to fight may seek refuge over the hills in Dasheb.’

  ‘Very well. I have been called child-slayer, but it is not true. Be ready to move your refugees out at dawn, and come to me with their numbers and details,’ Ashurek answered without hesitating.

  ‘My thanks, Your Imperial Highness,’ the man gasped in relief. He had expected to be dead by now; certainly he had not expected the request to be granted. The lieutenants led him out, returning him to his own camp as Ashurek ordered.

  Ashurek continued looking over maps. At his shoulder, the thin General cleared his throat and said in a tone of soft amusement, ‘Forgive me, sir, but you obviously do not know your Drishian history.’

  ‘Why, what of it, Karadrek?’

  ‘Three centuries ago, Drish was invaded by Elegar. They made a similar request, and it was agreed that all the sick and crippled should go into Dasheb. The next morning, every single Drishian had maimed or injured himself, or pretended the same, and every single one of the cowards limped over the hills into Dasheb.

  ‘Elegar was left with a deserted country, made complete fools. So they dithered a while, then followed the Drishians, and were massacred by a large force mustered in Dasheb. For Dasheb, as you should know, has always been Drish’s ally.’

  ‘I know this, but you’re wrong, Karadrek. They’ll not dishonour the agreement,’ was all Ashurek had to say.

  General Karadrek looked sourly at his Commander, then stooped under the tent flap, and left.

  Later, in the night, he returned. Ashurek was sleeping soundly, for Karadrek himself had slipped a powerful narcotic into his wine. Trembling slightly, he reached down to Ashurek’s neck and felt for the tiny leather pouch on its chain.

  Loosening the top of the pouch, Karadrek peeped inside and saw the little blue stone, egg-shaped, smooth and gleaming. It felt almost gelatinous – and then he felt its power.

  His veins were filled with molten lead and a spasm shook his body. His head dropped down to rest on Ashurek’s chest, while one arm stretched out rigid into the air behind him, the flesh bleached to snow in the lamplight.

  ‘How can he carry this thing?’ he thought. And as he knelt there, shaken with horror, he forgot the words of the summoning. Yet in spite of this – as if drawn by the rhythm of Ashurek’s heartbeat – a demon appeared.

  Meheg-Ba stood smiling down on the sleeping Prince, the second figure crouched over him like a vampire.

  ‘Karadrek,’ it said. ‘You called me, through the power of the Egg-Stone and in Meshurek’s name. A clever move, as it means I cannot possess you. What do you want?’

  ‘I do this for Meshurek
,’ gasped Karadrek, paralysed in position. ‘I fear Ashurek will make a fool of himself and of the Gorethrian army.’ He explained the agreement with the Drishian.

  ‘I see,’ said Meheg-Ba, uttering a hissing laugh. ‘Then let us ensure that only Ashurek is made a fool of, eh?’

  Then Karadrek shakily stood up, and he and the silver demon went into the Drishian camp and wreaked their terrible work.

  The Drishian leader was brought before Ashurek in the city’s shining main street the next day. He stood as proudly as before, but he rested on crutches and one foot had been replaced by a bandaged, bloody stump. His face was wrought with pain.

  ‘Your Imperial Highness, all the Drishians are lame, or crippled, or blinded.’

  Ashurek heard Karadrek, at his side, draw in a soft, smug breath. Anger flowed through him. ‘What miserable cowards you have proved yourselves – to betray an agreement and maim yourselves sooner than fight? Was not a simple surrender easy enough, or would you have Dasheb do your fighting for you? Get you all gone over the hills – the wretched cowardice of Drish won’t be forgotten.’ He made to turn away, but the man stopped him.

  ‘Wait, Your Highness – we did not betray the agreement, and we did not maim ourselves.’ Red tears of anger and sorrow flowed from his eyes as he spoke. ‘Demons came among us – there was nothing we could do – demons, and that man there–’ he pointed a shaking hand at Karadrek.

  The General was quick with a convincing denial, but not quick enough, for Ashurek had glimpsed the brief unguarded guilt on the face of his second-in-command. And he knew there had been something sinister in his unnaturally heavy sleep the previous night… ‘Return to your camp,’ Ashurek said to the Drishian.

  ‘Yes, Your Highness. There can be no battle now. But how – how are you ever going to make amends for Gorethria’s evil work?’ He turned and limped away.

  ‘I did warn you,’ Karadrek said.

  Not reacting, Ashurek summoned two soldiers and said, ‘General Karadrek is under arrest. Have him taken to my tent.’

  ‘My Prince, I don’t understand you,’ Karadrek said, smiling although he was now chained by one hand to the central tent pole. ‘It was my responsibility, I admit, but I was only trying to save Gorethria from humiliation.’

  ‘So Gorethria may look evil, bloodthirsty, cruel, anything but foolish?’ Ashurek said, fury smouldering in him.

  ‘Sir, I think you are becoming handicapped by compassion. I did it for the best.’

  ‘Compassion, eh? So pity has become such a dangerous thing that you must meddle, summon a demon to remove the risk? Of all the appalling things the Egg-Stone has caused, this maiming and torture of people has got to be the worst. By the Serpent, Karadrek, I’ll show you compassion.’

  Horrified, Karadrek watched as his High Commander took a sword from the weapon rack. ‘Sir – I only did what the demon told me to–’

  ‘I know, I know. That is the problem with demons. And I know the grudge you bear me for not stealing the throne from Meshurek. How shall I maim you, Karadrek? How do you maim a power-seeker? Shall it be your foot, like the Drishian?’ He slashed at the General’s ankle. Karadrek danced like a monkey around the tentpole. ‘Or your eyes… or your tongue…’ the blade danced dangerously close to his face, and a sweat of fear ran off his forehead.

  ‘None of those. I’ll set you free.’ Karadrek wilted with relief, and then the sword came down and severed his chained hand.

  ‘It has got to stop,’ Ashurek told himself in torment, alone in the tent. The Egg-Stone lay before him on the table; and then he found himself pounding it with the flat of his sword, again and again and again, crushing it to powder.

  But when he stopped it still lay there, whole, seeming to mock him. Groaning, he replaced it in its pouch.

  ‘It has got to stop. It will stop, now,’ he thought. ‘The senseless, bestial cruelty of the Serpent.’

  And the invasion of Drish was Ashurek’s last act perpetrated for the Empire, because the next day he left the encampment, and the events that culminated in the murder of his sister and his flight across Tearn took place. But worse was still to come.

  He had left his second under arrest, but with the demon’s help Karadrek escaped and took command of the battalion. And then, in one of Gorethria’s most notorious and despised acts, he had the crippled Drishians slaughtered.

  Ashurek would have sought revenge; but after this Karadrek disappeared. Some said the demon had taken him, others that even his own men thought he was mad, and had murdered him.

  #

  ‘How can I make amends?’ Ashurek asked himself. It was the following day, and he was leaning on the paddock fence behind Setrel’s cottage, watching Estarinel giving Atrel a ride on Shaell. Medrian had wandered off alone, more morose than ever. ‘Gorethria should burn, be swallowed into hell…’

  At least the Empire was weakening, for the royal family had disintegrated, and there was a struggle for leadership. Ashurek was no longer concerned with what happened to his country. Now his only purpose was to fulfil Silvren’s Quest and slay that scourge of the world – the Worm M’gulfn. ‘Yet perhaps I’ve already done too much on its behalf… I brought the Egg-Stone into the world, and banished the Earth’s hope – Miril. Perhaps it’s too late, because of what I’ve done.’

  He felt a gentle tugging at his sleeve, and roused himself from his thoughts to find Setrel’s daughter, Seytra, looking shyly up at him.

  ‘Is it true,’ she said, ‘are you really Prince Ashurek?’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ he replied. ‘And do you spend much time listening at doors when you should be asleep?’

  She lowered her head, cheeks reddening. ‘I heard everything you and my father said. It’s all right, we know all about the war anyway. We learned about Gorethria at school. Is the Empire really like they say, with lots of mysterious countries, and people with blue and black and purple skins, and strange animals?’

  ‘Yes,’ he answered gravely. ‘It is a weird and colourful continent, more so than Tearn.’

  ‘And what about the fierce Vardravian warriors bravely struggling against the dark Gorethrian forces?’ She swallowed. ‘That's what the history book said, anyway. I think Tearnians are pathetic, compared to that.’

  ‘Seytra, Tearnians are not “pathetic”, as you say, only different. There was fighting all the time in the Empire, but there was nothing romantic or exciting in it – just senseless bloodshed. Do you understand?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said hesitantly. ‘You’re different to how I would have expected.’

  ‘What did you expect?’

  ‘Well,’ Seytra was almost whispering now. ‘They made you sound like this invincible monster. I thought you’d be fierce and terrifying, swinging a sword everywhere. But you’re really quiet and er… sort of heroic.’

  ‘Perhaps I seem as you want me to,’ said Ashurek. Seytra shook her head vehemently.

  ‘I heard all about demons, and sorcery, and that you loved a golden-haired sorceress–’ she glanced up at him, eyes shining. ‘I want to be a sorceress too, but – I’m afraid I’ll never be able to. Can I tell you something that I’ve never told anyone?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ashurek sighed.

  ‘When my parents are there, my brother and I dance and sing and pretend nothing is happening. On my own, though, I have nightmares: corpses walk down into the village and kill my parents and us, and then we all go walking, killing our friends–’ she started to tremble, struggling not to cry. ‘I’m frightened. Please, can’t you help us?’

  The plea burst from her, and her eyes were a well of hope and desperation. Sadly he placed a hand on her thin shoulder. ‘Seytra, I can’t promise anything.’

  ‘Everyone here seems so helpless, but you seem stronger. Oh please, there must be something you can do?’

  Yes, there must be something, Ashurek thought. He said, ‘Go across and talk to Estarinel, you’ll find him a more cheery companion than me.’

  ‘All right,’ said S
eytra, hanging her head. Then she lifted her chin, determined to make a show of bravery. ‘My brother rides like a sack of turnips. I’ll show him.’

  Later that day, Setrel returned from his Long Table council, seeming disheartened. At the meeting had been army leaders and officials from all over the country – the people who formed Excarith’s government.

  ‘We haven’t long,’ he said to the three guests and to his wife. ‘They’ve received another message in Mardrathern, our capital. It said, “Expect the crows soon. When you see them, you will have two days to prepare. Fight or surrender or hide, it will make no difference. You will all be slain, and you will all become my slaves.”’

  Ayla gave a gasp and Setrel said, ‘Sorry, my dear. They’ve only been able to recruit twenty more nemen mercenaries. Twenty! They’ve heard what’s happening here and won’t come.’

  ‘Come and eat. We’ll need the strength,’ Ayla said with comforting if banal practicality.

  ‘Yes, and afterwards,’ Setrel said, ‘I would like the three of you to ride down to the river with me. There’s something I wish to show you.’

  After a meal, they rode through pleasant countryside. The sun threw down cloud-softened shafts of light, and trees covered the hills in a green and gold mist. They rode through the encampment of the country’s own army; a vast maze of tents. The air was filled with the bitter smoke and flying carbon particles of many fires; the sound of voices, shouting and laughing, the clangour of a steel-smith at work. There were a few pack animals, but Excarith had no war horses.

  On the look-out peak of the encampment, they could see for miles northwards. The landscape was streaked with layers of mist, touched with lilac, blue and rose from the sun. The river that curled across the valley floor was shining mercury.

  They continued the ride down into the valley until they came to a cluster of cottages and inns that formed a small river port. The natural flat bank of the river formed a quay to serve the small fishing trade.