To his dismay, he saw that he was in the temple infirmary for the second time that month. His visits had become quite a habit, and one he did not like.
He saw a flash of white and called out. ‘Matron, is that you?’ Only he was so dehydrated it was barely a whisper, so he tried again. ‘Matron?’
He heard quick footsteps and a figure came into focus and looked down at him.
Matron Rod’lin smiled and patted his arm gently. ‘Welcome back, Curator. You gave us quite a scare.’
‘Water,’ he croaked.
Matron nodded and reached for a jug set aside on a small table at the side of his bed. She poured him a measure of cold water and brought the goblet to his lips. He drank thirstily, though the matron restricted him from taking too much at one time and set the goblet down.
‘Not too much now, it’ll make you sick,’ she said and placed a cold hand on his forehead to check his temperature. ‘Well, you do seem to have broken your fever. It was touch and go for a while. I shall get Doctor Zarth to give you the once-over.’
She made to leave, but Coinin reached out and grabbed her arm weakly. His right arm, it seemed, was the only part of him undamaged in some way.
‘Please, tell me what happened?’
‘I don’t think I should be the one to say.’
Coinin gripped her arm tighter, not enough to hurt, just sufficient to show his insistence. ‘Please.’
The matron looked around her, conscious that her place was to heal and not to gossip. ‘All I know is Archmage Menin brought you here. She refused to say what happened, only that you’d fallen from a height. She also needed treatment. She was released almost immediately, thereafter.’
Coinin looked puzzled. ‘So I fell?’
‘It looks that way, but you have acquired a new mark on your body, one your brother asserts was not there previously. Aniol, your guard, claims you and the Archmage appeared at the entrance to the gardens and collapsed in front of her and Zaruun.’ Rod’lin smoothed out his bedding and appeared to look busy as she quietly continued. ‘You and Menin were dripping wet, and you were in such a bad state that we had a very hard time transporting you here. I’m afraid none of us has experience of porting like Menin.’
‘This mark, what is it?’ Coinin asked.
Matron Rod’lin frowned. ‘It’s a, well, it looks a little like a skull, only I can’t show you right this moment. The mark is on the back of your neck.’
‘Perhaps when I am fit and able then,’ said Coinin, thinking if the mark was indeed a skull it was quite fitting that Death should have left him a reminder in some way, a small token of his presence.
He had not fallen, he knew that much. The memory of his possession by Death was returning. Perhaps the mark had something to do with that. ‘Did I do it? Did I stop him?’ he asked the matron.
Rod’lin looked at him, confused. ‘Stop whom?’
Coinin realised the futility of asking the matron. She did not have the answers he sought. ‘Matron, all will become clear if would you, please summon Archmage Menin for me, I need to speak with her.’
Rod’lin nodded her head. ‘Certainly, this instant, Sir.’ She bustled away and left Coinin alone to his thoughts.
He lay there in a state of anticipation and wondered if he had indeed defeated Death, or whether the beast had succeeded in his plan.
A crash on the other side of the room disturbed his thoughts. From the corner of his eye, it appeared that Archmage Menin had inadvertently knocked over a tray of surgical instruments and was in the process of apologising. She quickly finished and grasped her cloak around her to prevent more accidents, and sped his way with a grin on her face that resembled relief.
‘Curator, it is so good to see you are finally able to talk. Last I saw you, you were in no fit state.’ Menin smiled.
Coinin wished she would come closer; the muscles around his eye sockets hurt as he tried to glimpse her. ‘Do you know what happened down in—?’
Menin interrupted him with a cough and shook her head. Coinin mentally kicked himself. What a fool, he had very nearly revealed that there was a secret library under the gardens.
‘Do you know what happened?’ he said.
‘I do indeed, but we can’t talk freely here. I will have you moved to your chambers, I am sure you will feel more comfortable there,’ Menin eyed Matron Rod’lin who was doing a bad job of pretending not to listen. ‘We will be able to talk more openly there. However, let me say this, we were lucky this time.’
Coinin sighed with relief, satisfied for the moment. The rest of the story could wait. He was content to heal, but he was also hungry.
‘I’ll see you soon, Curator.’ Menin patted his arm and left without further word.
Matron Rod’lin returned to his bedside and Coinin could see she was eager to learn more.
‘Thank you for fetching the Archmage, that was kind of you. Though I could really eat something. I feel like I’ve been here a week,’ said Coinin in the hope of bypassing a torrent of questions he was sure she would ask, and he would be unable to answer.
‘You have been here a week, and in no fit state to eat, I might add.’
As he had hoped, her matronly duties came to the fore, and she forgot to ask him about what he and Menin had discussed. Instead, she vanished from the room looking for food.
❖
Being back in his private space was good. Someone had removed the luxurious four-poster bed from his room, and Coinin had been wheeled into his chambers on the infirmary bed. Not as nice and nowhere near as comfortable, it would have to do.
The past day had seen a handful of visitors come and go, though none was his brother. When he asked each of his callers about Marrok, they would avoid his gaze and made an excuse to leave. By the fifth time of asking, he had become anxious indeed.
Later that evening Coinin savoured a delicious soup, which he was sure was nettle, but far tastier than the bland kind he would have had at his uncle’s home. Archmage Menin bustled into the room just as Aniol had finished wiping his chin free of soup for the eleventh time, and plonked her bottom on the edge of the bed.
‘So how are we feeling? Any better? I do need my Curator up and about quickly you know, there is so much to do around here,’ she said with a wink and turned to Aniol. ‘My dear, would you mind leaving us a moment?’
Aniol bowed. ‘As you wish, milady.’ She gathered the soup dish and spoon and then left and closed the door behind her.
‘You should have come sooner,’ said Coinin.
‘That was difficult today, I’m afraid. We have had a visit from an emissary and several of his entourage from the Dark Lands. There’s trouble brewing there I fear.’
‘Still, it would have been nice to have had a quick visit. It’s quite frustrating being cooped up here with only Aniol for company and no sign of Marrok. Even Draken hasn’t shown his face.’
Menin looked away briefly. ‘I’m sorry, Coinin, but Marrok is otherwise engaged. We will discuss that in a moment, though firstly I need to ask you what happened in the library.’
Coinin screwed his face up for a moment. ‘Things have slowly come back to me over the past day. I remember having such a headache and the next thing I knew I was battling Death in some kind of arena. I took this to be in my mind, of course.’
‘Go on,’ Menin urged.
‘That’s it really, only I do think I defeated him. I figured the only way to beat Death was to offer my life willingly to him. So I did. I laid down my arms and waited for him to strike.’
‘Risky. What happened then?’
‘He kind of froze on the spot and broke into many pieces. The next thing I know he disappeared, and I woke up in the infirmary,’ Coinin replied, finding it difficult to put into words what he had witnessed.
‘So Death has a weakness, interesting. I don’t mind telling you I was utterly terrified when he spoke to me in the cavern,’ Menin confessed.
‘You spoke to him?’
‘Well, through you, but I thought y
ou knew.’
‘I have no recollection of the moment I was trapped inside my own head with that demon. I don’t think I fell as Matron Rod’lin had said.’
‘Then you don’t know how you sustained your injuries?’ Menin asked with a guilty look.
‘No.’
‘I’m truly sorry; I am the cause of them,’ Menin continued quietly. ‘In order to stop Death adding his name to the Scroll of Life, I had to battle with him, and I’m afraid you were thrown around quite a bit.’
Coinin was gracious enough to smile at her. ‘He did seem distracted. I guess he was fighting two battles at once. Just remind me never to get on your bad side.’
Menin sighed. ‘We succeeded thankfully, he didn’t get to fulfil his wish. I’m surmising that it’s down to you and your inner conflict with him.’
‘I have a feeling he won’t be back. I taught him a lesson he won’t readily forget, and I showed him I’m not easily possessed.’
‘You believe he isn’t dead?’
‘No, just banished from my mind.’
‘That is good news indeed,’ Menin smiled. ‘Let’s trust it remains so.’
‘Speaking of news, what of my brother?’
Menin stood and walked to the window of the room and looked out. ‘I have sent him on a quest to recover the Sword of Cerathil from the travelling City of Mador,’ she replied.
‘Why would you do that?’ Coinin asked worriedly. ‘He’s not ready for such a responsibility.’
‘Do not fear, he has with him two of your finest generals and a squad of soldiers at his disposal,’ Menin reassured.
Coinin, however, was not reassured, and his latest nightmare flashed through his mind. ‘I don’t think you understand, I had a dream or a premonition, I’m not sure which, and in it, Marrok was thrown from a wooden tower during an attack on a castle.’
Menin scrutinised Coinin for a moment. ‘I’m sure you believe these dreams or premonitions are real—’
‘They are real,’ Coinin interrupted angrily.
Menin ignored his outburst. ‘I’m sure you believe they can come to fruition, but let me reassure you that there are no castles in the City of Mador, it’s all canvas tents. The Madorine, for the most part, are a nomadic people, the king of the clans prefers to travel.’
Coinin searched her eyes for a deception and found none. ‘Are you certain?’
‘I have never been more certain of anything in all my life. Besides, an attack on a castle would take far more men than I sent, and it is unlikely they would need a siege tower to raid a canvas tent,’ Menin replied.
Coinin closed his eyes as relief washed over him for the moment. At least his nightmare could not come true in Madorine. Still, that did not stop him worrying. His brother was going up against a fearsome enemy, one that had killed his parents. Who knew what Marrok would do?
❖
Marrok was having an enjoyable time. A new excitement had risen within him, and a lust that had grown in him since childhood was bubbling inside. He was heading into Madorine territory, his primary goal to secure the Sword of Cerathil, and if he exacted retribution on a few Madorine on the way, all the better.
He sensed none of the same excitement from his companions; in fact, they were quiet and contemplative, hardened after so many encounters in battle. They had been given no plan other than to sneak into the city and retrieve the sword from King Curlicca’s possession. No plan could be devised that could take into account a constantly changing city where the very placement of its dwellings changed with each passing day.
They knew for instance that Curlicca’s tent was by far the grandest and largest in the camp, they just did not know the city’s current location. So the plan was to disguise themselves as travelling merchants and patronise a Madorine beer tent, and once there, fish for information.
It was believed Curlicca was so paranoid about assassination that he moved the city every few days, and where the shepherd went, his flock would follow.
Marrok had experienced porting for only the second time in his life. Menin had gathered her troops and gave them what encouragement she could before whisking them one by one to a secluded wood not far onto the mainland.
He had met up with a small unit of men headed by Generals Jonjo and Torith, very experienced soldiers from whom he was sure he would learn a great deal. He sensed no ill feeling from these men who had put in years of service, that he, no-one of importance, had been promoted to the rank of General without the hard work that accompanied such a role. They felt at one with Archmage Menin that he and Coinin would bring order to The Brotherhood, acutely aware of the prophecy that surrounded the brothers.
He had initially been briefed by these men on his arrival and listened to every instruction keenly. Jonjo was tall and gangly with a grey receding hairline and deep frown lines, and Torith was short and pot-bellied, with dark shoulder-length hair tied back and interwoven with multicoloured beads.
Several days later, Generals Jonjo, Torith, and he were lying prone on the crest of a hilltop overlooking a small campsite tucked away in a valley of steaming volcanic rock. From this vantage point, they could see in the early morning light that a dozen Madorine had set up their stalls for trading. The females were preparing breakfast over campfires, and scrawny younglings tended to the livestock as thin and underfed as the children.
A dozen or so large tents, which Marrok took to be family dwellings, had been erected in a semi-circle around the trading stalls. Marrok assumed that this must be a regular trading route.
‘It’s unusual to see traders this close to the border,’ General Torith muttered.
‘So what’s the plan?’ Marrok asked.
‘I think we need to send a single individual to purchase Madorine clothing from a trader. It may arouse suspicion if we all go marching into the camp at once, even in our cloaks,’ Torith replied.
‘A human purchasing a dozen sets of Madorine clothing in one go is going to arouse their interest enough,’ General Jonjo added.
‘I’ll go. I’m the only one not wearing battle armour,’ said Marrok.
‘Why is that, incidentally?’ Torith asked.
‘I want to be able to move quickly, and that stuff just weighs you down. I’m going up against an unknown enemy, and father always said if you’re outnumbered, run. Can’t run if you’re wearing heavy armour.’
‘I’m surprised you would consider retreat. I don’t ever remember Knight General Wulf running away from a fight.’ Jonjo raised an eyebrow.
Marrok’s heart skipped a beat. He had just learnt that his father Ædelmær had been a Knight General, the highest military rank in The Order, and that gave him a sense of immense pride. Perhaps one day he would follow in his father’s footsteps.
‘Retreat to fight another day. Stay, fight and die. I’d rather regroup and hit them again with a new tactic.’ Marrok recounted his father’s words, which he had heard many years ago.
‘Retreat? Interesting concept. I wonder why that’s not in our training manuals?’ Torith mused.
A good deal of shouting from the camp disturbed their conversation. A commotion was happening in the tented village. A dozen or more Madorine were engrossed in chasing after a herd of goats that had escaped their pen. A child had been bent over an old Madorine’s knee and was receiving a thrashing with a leather strap. It was evident to the onlookers that this child had set the goats free and was being punished accordingly.
‘Now is the time, while they are distracted, they will pay less attention to a stranger in the camp,’ said Torith. He deposited a handful of gold coins into Marrok’s hand. ‘This should be enough to get what we need. We will assist you if there is trouble. Waste no time and go now.’
Marrok tucked the coins inside his clothing and nodded. ‘If you see me running, I’m in trouble and would be grateful for that assistance.’
He stood up, stretched his stiff legs and half walked, half ran down the steep incline of the hill towards the camp.
B
eyond the incline, he cautiously made his way across the volcanic rock that formed the small valley and housed the camp, intensely aware of how sharp the edges of the mineral could be. He knew for certain the rocks could cut through a leather boot, and did not desire an injury at this critical stage.
Five minutes later he had successfully traversed the side of the valley and was now on flatter ground, which made the going easier. He noticed the heat from the ground here, and it rumbled beneath his feet. Somewhere under where he stood was an active volcano. The stories of Madorine being a wasteland were certainly accurate from what he could see. Of course, he knew what lay beyond this barren place could very well be fertile and fruitful. As they ventured deeper into Madorine, he was confident they would learn for themselves.
As he approached the small encampment, he became aware of a whole new feast of sights and sounds, and the smell was overpowering, pungent to say the least. He retched at the whiff, quite unable to place it, covered his mouth and nose with his cloak and pressed on.
The camp was dirty and neglected and judging by the wear and tear of the ground underfoot it had been there for some time. A small group of children scurried from his path, frightened by the stranger. An elderly Madorine he had seen earlier beating a child followed his every move with a surly expression, his eyes unblinking. He puffed on a thin clay tobacco pipe and blew curls of smoke from his black lips.
Marrok approached the first of the barrow stalls and recoiled, as the stench grew greater from unidentifiable rotten flesh that hung from spikes and lay on the wooden countertop. The Madorine selling his wares looked no more appealing than his butchered meat. The butcher snarled at him with his pointed teeth, which Marrok took to be a smile. He returned the greeting and walked on, to the disapproval of the vendor who chopped at his meat vigorously.
The next stall contained very little of interest to him, a few musty old scrolls, several books and a box of partially used tallow candles. He nodded curtly to the stall-holder and moved on. He was unaware that the Madorine could read or had any inclination to do so. This was unusual behaviour indeed for a people bred for war.
The Aduramis Chronicles: Volumes 1-3: The Definitive Collection Page 32