Coinin played with dirty fingernails while he waited patiently for the former Archmage’s considered response.
It was a full five minutes before Orodor stopped short and faced Coinin.
‘Your father went to great pains to protect you and begin your training. To all within The Order, your father left to marry your mother. In part this is true, but in reality, he left at my instruction.’ Orodor again plucked at his nonexistent beard. ‘You see, your mother was already with child, a long-awaited event foretold by the gods. This one would command armies to victory over an evil that threatened the land. Of course, I talk about Marrok.’
‘Marrok?’
‘Indeed, Marrok is to command your troops. He will become an exceptional general and lead your troops to many victories. All he lacks is foresight and direction. That is where you become valuable. The gifts you possess and those you will learn in the coming years will serve you well. You will be able to offer Marrok guidance and purpose. Without you, he will be lost. You are the binding force that will unite The Brotherhood on your quest to rid this world of darkness and evil. I know your misgivings surrounding destiny are great, yet know this: your rise to greatness was foretold countless generations ago, and is manifest in all our teachings. You are the chosen one who will lead Soliath Wulf’s people to a new enlightenment.’
Orodor scratched his head before continuing. ‘Besides all that, do it for your parents who suffered to protect you. Let not their sacrifice go unrewarded.’
It was Coinin’s turn to be silent. He carefully weighed his options and allowed all that was said to him to sink in.
‘If I refuse?’ he said with a raised brow.
‘Then there’s a good chance Er’ath will be decimated by Mort if he becomes High King of the gods, and an equal chance Rindor will exact some form of punishment,’ Orodor answered.
‘I assume you’ve tried obtaining the swords before now.’
‘Yes, without success.’
‘Is it set in stone then that I will agree to follow my destiny?’
Orodor chuckled. ‘Yes, though what matters is whether you do so freely or begrudgingly. What is unclear is if you will succeed, and is a question of faith that the prophecy surrounding you and Marrok has been correctly interpreted.’
Coinin nodded. ‘So then we have to prevent a war in the heavens from destroying this planet. Well, I guess we can’t let that happen, can we? What must I do?’
Orodor smiled hugely before answering. ‘Training, and plenty of it. However, first, you must undergo a sacred rite of passage and be inducted into The Brotherhood of The Wulf.’
‘This should be interesting,’ Menin smiled.
‘Why?’ Coinin asked, curious.
‘You will see.’
THE WAYWARD MATRON
Dareth Jericho was having a miserable time. His wife had been murdered by one of his guards, who had then been brutally dispatched in return, in the act of retribution from his chief captor, Lordich Secrecar.
He had just learnt, after many years, that his former friend Lordich Secracar was alive and well.
Jericho had thought he had been executed. But not so. Lordich had conspired with Death himself to rid the world of The Brotherhood of The Wulf, and enforce his rule as leader of The Brotherhood of the Dragon.
His head swam as he sat cold and lonely in a damp, dark cell in an underground prison on a mysterious island.
To compound his loss, his newfound friend Silentus had been taken away and executed moments before. Dareth felt regret as the axe struck home, and his eyes closed in silent prayer and contemplation, even before the reverberation of steel on wood died away.
‘Forgive me, my friend,’ he said with a heavy heart.
In those few silent moments, he vowed to visit the dead man’s wife and pay his respects to her.
Lordich, true to his word, had permitted Jericho free rein over the small island, though accompanied at all times by two guards whom he very quickly named Stumpy and Beanpole.
Stumpy was thick as a tree trunk around the neck, with arms that could crush a man’s skull, of that Jericho, had no doubt. Beanpole, on the other hand, was at least seven feet tall, with eyes that were large and protruding. The oddity about the pair was that Stumpy had a high-pitched voice, thin and reedy, and Beanpole had a deep, resonant voice that grabbed and held the attention of all who heard it. Not that either said too much. Jericho had barely listened to a word spoken by the unlikely duo in the past two days of his captivity. He sensed that they did not like each other much and that he could use to his advantage.
If he were successful, he would be able to play one off the other and use this distraction to escape. He just needed a scenario and the opportunity.
So small was the island that he had explored most of it, bar the off-limits sections, although saw no visible means of escape. He had already been told it was futile to try to use magic to leave the island, and even the inhabitants used non-magical means to depart, which seemed to affirm the point.
Today, when they came for him, he had decided he would like to visit the top of the black tower and peer over the ramparts. Any hope he had of spotting Rosthagaar he knew would be fruitless; they had travelled too far in the clutch of a dragon for that. His intention was to get a better grasp of the lay of the land, and perhaps spot something he had missed, an escape route, or a place to hide while he devised a plan.
His heart was heavy, yet his spirit for escape was high, and this spurred him on. His thoughts, though, were interrupted by the sound of his jailers’ return; the distinctive shuffle of Stumpy and the jangle of keys that Beanpole incessantly twirled on a ring gave their presence away.
Cell door keys jangled in the lock, and with a click, it unlocked. The door opened, and Stumpy stood there with arms crossed, expectant.
Jericho stretched audibly and then led the way out of the cell.
Stumpy and Beanpole looked at each other dumbfounded and jogged after him.
‘Hold it! We lead the way,’ Beanpole grunted.
‘Fine, then lead me to the top of the black tower.’
‘Are you going to jump off?’ Stumpy laughed.
‘If only to stop having to look at your ugly face.’
Stumpy went to thump Jericho but was restrained by Beanpole. He looked affronted at Beanpole’s actions, yet acquiesced.
Jericho chuckled quietly to himself and set off with the duo. The protection of Lordich meant they could not harm him for fear of reprisals.
They passed through the cave-like dungeon quickly and arrived at the black tower stairwell within minutes. Beanpole looked green at the thought of hundreds of steps to the summit, whereas Stumpy looked quite enthusiastic at the idea.
‘After me,’ said Stumpy, and with a spring in his gait he practically raced up the steps, followed by Jericho, and then slowly by Beanpole, whom, Jericho noted, was remarkably unfit.
Jericho thanked his stars that he was active. Despite his age, he could often still outpace new recruits to his ranks. With a slightly improved mood, he paced himself as the stone mountain ahead of him brought strain to his calf muscles.
Several minutes later Stumpy stood and stretched at the summit with a gaping smile, and down below the upper hatch Jericho could hear the echoed puffs and pants of Beanpole far behind.
‘Enjoyed that, did you?’ Jericho asked.
‘That was nothing; I do that every morning before breakfast,’ Stumpy boasted.
Jericho just nodded and looked around him. Nothing had changed since the last time he was here a few days ago when he was dropped from a height by a dragon to land heavily on the hard stone floor of the tower. A crenellated wall ran the circumference of the tower, with slits for defence chiselled into the black stone. Jericho wondered why, since no ladder dared reach this height.
He walked over to the low barrier and grasped the coldness of the stone, and took in a deep breath of cold air that made him shiver slightly.
Below, the small island
sat lost in a glittering ocean. From this height, the layout of the land offered no clue as to an escape route, and as he suspected, Rosthagaar was nowhere to be seen, although whether he was looking in the right direction was anybody’s guess.
The distant horizon was hazy and marred only by a small black dot that seemed to run almost level with the tower, and appeared to be getting closer. This caught Jericho’s interest to the point that he ignored Beanpole’s gasps for breath behind him. What was the thing that headed his way? It could be a dragon, he thought, or was it a rescue? Then he dismissed the idea. Rescue was not an option; no one knew of his whereabouts.
‘Oh, I think I’m going to die,’ Beanpole wailed.
‘Quit your complaining,’ Stumpy squealed. ‘If the master saw you like this, he would kill you as soon as look at you.’
‘Better that than this damned pain in my legs.’
Jericho shook his head and returned to looking out to sea.
The shape had definitely grown larger, and it took on an oddly angular form. For a moment it reflected the sun, and there was a familiarity to it that he just could not put his finger on. What was it about this thing headed towards them that set his heart thumping?
His question was immediately answered; a second shape rounded the first, and this was unmistakably an airship. An envelope of air held the wooden frame aloft with thickly wound ropes now visible in profile. As the ship pulled alongside its companion, new features presented themselves.
Black sails extended from the sides of the vessel. The main cabin was made from riveted iron sections and rusted in a semi-circular frame. The large glass fronted structure housed a wheelhouse, and smaller convex circles of glass ran down each side of the cabin of the pirate sky ship.
As the ship turned slightly to dock with its companion, the familiar skull-and-crossbones contrasted against the black of its envelope, and several cannon heads peeked out from holes cut in the side of the body of the ship, all serving to confirm his suspicions. Now he knew he had a chance to escape, not because the pirates themselves would aid his rescue. It was that which floated alongside the pirate ship that was his means of escape. He dared to allow himself, for the briefest of moments, a feeling of hope at the chance of freedom.
The long-lost portion of the golden temple formerly housing the temple’s infirmary now hovered near the tower. He recalled the day this particular section of the temple had detached itself explosively from the main building and floated away. There was considerable destruction, though thankfully no one was hurt.
Matron Truelove, herself unharmed, had called down from the quickly disappearing structure and told anyone who would listen that she was sorry for the trouble, and added that she might be back one day. Jericho remembered distinctly Truelove’s face was a brilliant red indeed.
With salvation in sight, Jericho did not delay. He stepped across the tower walkway to Stumpy who was knelt across Beanpole and wafted air at his face.
‘I don’t know why you help him; he’s the one that said you couldn’t do a circuit of the tower stairwell within three minutes.’ Jericho smiled.
‘Oh yeah, you did, did you?’ Stumpy thumped Beanpole in the gut and then stood up. ‘Well, as it happens, I can do it in two minutes.’ And without further word, he ducked down the tower hatch and disappeared, eager to prove himself.
‘I never said that,’ said Beanpole angrily and rubbed his bruised stomach.
‘Yes, I know, I just needed a way to separate you both.’ Jericho dived on top of Beanpole and pinned him to the stonework and then placed two large hands around the shocked man’s neck.
Beanpole’s eyes grew wide; he knew what Jericho had planned for him. His attacker wanted to strangle him, and he thrashed like a wild animal in the throes of a violent death.
Jericho withstood many blows and attempts to gouge his eyes, yet it did not take long to subdue Beanpole, and the man eventually succumbed to a lack of oxygen.
Jericho removed himself from the limp body, his deed done. Out of respect, he closed the dead man’s bloodshot eyes, and then reached into the victim’s clothes and sought out his wand.
Although he did not need it to perform magic, it would serve a purpose. With a swift flick of the wrist, Jericho aimed the wand at the wooden cover. It slammed shut, and the bolt slid closed. He next heaved Beanpole’s body over the trapdoor in the hope that the extra weight would slow down any pursuit.
Without missing a beat, he raced to the rampart and checked the progress of the pirate airship. The vessel, to his relief, was barely a few hundred yards away, yet he still needed a way to attract their attention.
He slapped the wand in his palm absently, and then a thought formed; he raised the wand aloft and used a spell to elongate it into a long shaft, and from this sprouted a white pennant with the emblem of The Wulf emblazoned across it in gold and red. Jericho raised the new standard and waved it like a man possessed.
He hoped the good relationship the Pirates held with Matron Truelove would ensure they would come to investigate, provided they spotted his flag and associated its device with the Matron.
Jericho willed the Pirates to action, and as they drew close, he spied the captain with an eyeglass directed at him. The captain then gestured to his men, and slowly the ship began to move closer to the tower, painfully sedately from Jericho’s perspective.
A warning bell sounded faintly in the distance. His captors had realised he was missing, or they had spotted the ship or both. Now he understood the slits cut into the tower ramparts. Sky pirates could reach this high, and the tower needed a defence against marauders.
Behind him, the wooden hatch resonated with a crash as if something heavy had smashed against it, most likely Stumpy he imagined.
He was desperate now. He knew the hatch would give eventually, and he did not want to be around when that happened.
The ship was a few yards away when a deckhand threw a thick rope to Jericho. He grabbed for it, and quickly tied it around his waist. He had to be swift as the craft was already moving rapidly by. He climbed on to the rampart and prepared to jump. He prayed they had lashed the other end of the rope securely.
Without warning, the rampart disintegrated around him in a loud bang and a cloud of dust. He fell and spun fast, and above him, two heads appeared over the remains of the parapet and aimed wands at him. He flinched, and thankfully no spell struck him. Instead, a loud crack shocked his ears further, and then debris rained around him. The pirates had fired upon the newcomers with their cannon.
Jericho jerked to a rib-cracking stop as the rope suspended his fall. He swung in the breeze from a head wind and looked up. He cursed his luck; it was a long climb to the ship. Behind him, the tower had become smaller as they gained distance from it.
He felt a jerk and realised unseen hands had begun to pull him upwards. It was a few minutes before he was roughly seized and hoisted aboard the pirate ship, to land unceremoniously at the feet of a dozen men, half of whom appeared barefooted.
He raised his head and was greeted by a rabble of mean-featured crew. Their clothes were tattered, yet colourful, and their teeth were held in vicious snarls, and just as colourful.
A hairy hand reached out to him and offered assistance. He took it not too keenly, unaware of the fate these men had in store for him. He was pulled to his feet roughly, and deposited among the throng of men. To his left, a long-bearded fellow thrust his way through the crowd. He wore a black hat that distinguished him from the other crew and his beard was finely braided with red silk. His teeth bore a charcoal-black colouring, and Jericho knew instantly that this man wore false teeth made from ebony wood. He was most impressed with his black leather knee-length boots that were polished to a high gloss. Obviously, the cabin boy had pride in his work or was whipped until he buffed the boots to the owner’s demands.
‘Captain Maurice Blackthorn, your servant.’ The bearded man bowed awkwardly, unaccustomed to the action, and received a snort of laughter from a handful of his
men. His head whipped round, and he stared at them with fiery eyes. ‘You dare laugh at your captain? This man is acquainted with Matron Truelove and deserves our respect. The next of you to laugh will be thrown overboard.’
A chap to Jericho’s left gulped loudly, and others looked down, unable to meet the captain’s eye.
Jericho noted how well spoken he was for a pirate and suspected Blackthorn was not always of this breed.
He stepped forward and offered a bow in return. ‘Dareth Jericho, Order of The Wulf.’ He extended an arm to the captain in friendship and hoped it would be reciprocated. He had deliberately omitted his military title, as he and the various pirate factions had come to blows many a time. He hoped that they would assume he was a priest from the temple. He wore only a soiled cloak, his armour was still in the mountain pass at Sanctuary, and he silently prayed that his disguise held up to scrutiny.
Blackthorn took his hand and shook it heartily. ‘The matron will be pleased to see you.’
‘I also long to see her,’ Jericho smiled.
A sweaty, pot-bellied deckhand stepped between them, ears chock-full of gold earrings. ‘Captain, there be a dragon aft.’ He pointed with a hand laden with bejewelled rings.
Heads swung left and right. A mighty roar rang out that sent a shiver of fear through the crew. Panic set in, and crewmen ran here and there and gave quick glances over the bulwarks, on the lookout for the enemy. Each man hastened to fetch a weapon.
‘Helmsman, take her up as far as you dare. Man the cannons and protect the envelope at all costs. This is one captain who will not go down without a fight,’ Blackthorn yelled. ‘You there, move lively and fetch me that infernal peashooter.’
‘Peashooter?’ Jericho asked.
‘Yes, a newfangled machine from the New World; it sends a hot lead ball at a man faster than he can blink. It pierces the skin, and he dies. Not as fun as a cutlass, and I’m not sure how effective it is on a dragon, but we shall test it out.’ Blackthorn chuckled.
The Aduramis Chronicles: Volumes 1-3: The Definitive Collection Page 19