Low rumbles of exotic animals emanated from a handful of the caravans, however, the occupants could not be seen as they were shuttered from view. Intricate and fancy writing daubed the walls of the waggons that displayed titles such as ‘Cherrek the Brave: Lion Tamer Extraordinaire’, and ‘Madam Zambere: See your future told before your very eyes’.
A little outside of the town, carnies were in the process of erecting an enormous tent that would hold much of the night’s entertainments.
A young man by the name of Lordich lazily sat by and watched the others struggle and sweat, while he picked at his teeth with a stick to remove a layer of food debris that had gathered there. At eighteen, he was almost as tall as a full-grown man and had already amassed a bulky frame which came from years of working as a carny. He had long, dark straggly hair and piercing green eyes. He sneered at the other fools who worked hard erecting the tent. As the only son of the carnival owner, he used this to his benefit. He would often get out of doing the hard graft simply because his father left him in charge while tending to other matters. This usually involved entertaining women in his caravan, and today was no exception.
This fostered some resentment amongst the travellers. He was not a very popular boy, though he paid them no heed. He considered himself destined for greater things and felt in his bones that he would soon be whisked away from this life. Besides, Madam Zambere had told him so.
He watched the crowds slowly gather, excited by the new arrivals. Music began to play now, and a handful of people began to get into the spirit of the occasion and dance freely. The travellers had brought with them an ample supply of ale and had started selling it from a cutout in the side of one of the waggons to the disdain of the local tavern owner. It was the same every year, a fierce confrontation usually occurred between the carnival owner and the innkeeper, and culminated in a brawl in the town square. Bets were often taken as to who would win, and for the past three years, the carnival owner had succeeded.
The pale blue tent with its bright red and green triangles of cloth that hung from the edge of the high dome had been erected, and queues were forming to see the sights inside. A light rain refused to dampen the spirits of those in attendance.
Lordich had been tasked with securing the admission fee and stood stiffly by the entrance in his best waistcoat of coarse, red wool. He wore a tall, grey felt hat so as to be seen better. A little too large for him, it fell over his ears so that he had to adjust it now and then. Around his waist, a money belt was fastened tightly, and he stood next to a painted sign that showed ticket prices. The admission price had been set at two shils for an adult, one for a child, and eight for a family of four. Anyone with an ounce of common sense could see it was cheaper to visit separately, yet this was often where the families of simpler folk were fleeced. The entrance to the tent was decked invitingly with bunting that stretched from the canopy above to the floor, at an angle. Bound rush flooring had been laid up to the entrance to prevent the path from becoming a muddy bog.
‘That’ll be two shils, thank you kindly,’ said Lordich, and held out his hand for the two brass coins. A patron deposited the triangular coins in the boy’s filthy hand and scurried inside excitedly.
Each townie came under scrutiny by Lordich as they approached the tent. He had his reasons, and each to him was a likely mark as any other. He had become a skilled pickpocket, swift and sure, having learned these skills from the many unsavoury characters he associated with.
His plan had always been to leave the carnival on a big adventure, just as soon as he had enough gold to do so. Lordich did not think of himself as a bad person; he just longed to experience life other than that he had become accustomed to, and he knew no other way to escape his humdrum existence.
Halfway down the line of people, he spotted a tall young man, around his age, accompanied by a younger boy. They stood out to him as likely marks, their clothing of a finer quality than the majority of the townsfolk around these parts. He absently collected the entrance-dues, all the while focussing intently on the two.
Ædelmær, the shorter of the pair, looked at his older brother and smiled happily. ‘I’m looking forward to this. It’s not often we get to do something this exciting. I’m surprised Papa permitted it.’
Draken looked at him slyly. ‘The thanks should go to me. We wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t told him that I’d tell mama about his dalliance with the milking maid last summer.’
‘You didn’t, did you?’ Ædelmær guffawed. ‘It’s a wonder he didn’t take the lash to you.’
‘He wouldn’t dare. You remember the time I had him pinned against the wall? I could see it in his eyes, he feared me,’ Draken said coldly.
‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ Ædelmær frowned. ‘It’s no way to treat papa.’
‘Well, he always tries to dominate me, and I don’t like that.’
‘You’re heading for some big trouble, Drake. You need to be careful.’
Draken rolled his eyes. ‘Oh give over, I’m here to enjoy myself, not have you preach to me.’
‘Fine then, and just so you know, I did warn you,’ Ædelmær reminded with a shake of his index finger.
‘Yes, so you did. Now, can you shut up, we’re nearly there.’
Ædelmær looked to the front of the line and wondered how many more people could be squeezed inside the pale blue tent ahead of them. He had a concern it might be too crowded, or when he reached the entrance that he would be told that the tent was full, and passage denied. To his relief, though, a dirty-faced boy in a tall hat and red waistcoat held out his hand for the entrance fee. Ædelmær reached into his doublet and extracted a fancy leather pouch full of gold coins. He dipped inside and pulled out the required amount and deposited the currency into the hand of Lordich.
Lordich waved them inside and smiled. He had read it correctly; he now knew his mark to be the well-dressed young man. He quickly dragged his sign across the pathway which effectively blocked the entrance, and held up his hand as a groan erupted from the gathered crowd.
‘We’re full, come back in an hour,’ he snapped loudly and then whipped around to follow Ædelmær and Draken into the tent.
Inside was darkened and lit only by a dozen torches fastened to wooden poles that ran from the floor to the canvas ceiling. Around the circumference, visitors eager to see the show occupied crude benches.
Lordich scanned the arena for signs of his quarry, and half a minute later he saw them sat two rows in, quite near the performers’ entrance, a wide tunnel that led outside. Almost immediately a horn sounded and the carnival owner, dressed in bright green and wearing a tall hat, strode into the centre of the space, all smiles and arms held wide.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Hawrich called grandly, as he turned on the spot to address those assembled. ‘Let me be the first to welcome you to The Carnivàle Secracar. We have worked tirelessly this last year to find the latest entertainments for your eyes to feast upon. Please welcome the first of our acts, Grun’l the Mighty, who will astound you with his feats of strength.’ At his words, a short man, no higher than Lordich’s waist, entered the arena with a flourish and series of bows. He had long blonde hair tied with a bright red ribbon that matched his cloak, and he appeared to be as muscular as a child of ten years old. Seconds later a raucous laughter ran the length of the tent, interspersed with catcalls and jeers.
‘You may mock Grun’l the Mighty,’ Harwich boomed, ‘but I lay down a challenge here today. If even one of you can lift the heavy weight in the centre of the arena, then I will give you one hundred gold pieces. If you fail, then you shall forfeit six weeks wages for every year of your remaining life.’
A murmur rang around the tent and all eyes focussed on a large iron weight sat atop a small wooden platform, almost as tall at Grun’l himself. A set of steps led up to it, and Grun’l quickly climbed them. Several large farmhands stood and raised their arms to accept the challenge; one hundred gold was equal to four years backbreaking work for
the poorest worker.
Hawrich held up his hand for silence and was given it swiftly. ‘I’m glad to see so many have chosen to take the challenge.’ He smiled broadly, baring his yellow teeth. ‘As I call you forward,’ he said, holding a parchment aloft, ‘you will sign this contract and then proceed to lift the weight. If you succeed, I will hand you the one hundred gold. However, if you fail, then my collectors will call on you in due course.’
Lordich had quietly circled the arena and had secreted himself directly behind Ædelmær and Draken, like a hunter stalking his prey. He waited for the opportune moment, which would undoubtedly present itself in the next few moments.
‘Grun’l will now demonstrate what must be done in order to win one hundred gold,’ Hawrich announced dramatically.
A drummer positioned to the left of the platform, began a steady beat, and as Grun’l reached for the handle of the weight, he quickened his pace. The gathered onlookers began to clap in time with the drum, and many began to rise to their feet, eager to see this small man perform the impossible.
Grun’l put on a good show; he grasped the handle tightly and pulled all the right faces and grunted loudly. He stopped briefly, made a mockery of wiping his brow, to laughter, and then returned to his feat. Seconds later he had lifted the weight clear of the stage, held it for a few moments and then dropped it heavily on the platform. He stepped forward and took a bow.
‘There you have it, ladies and gentlemen,’ Hawrich smiled cheerily, ‘there’s nothing to it. May we have the first volunteer?’
A thickset farmhand stepped forward, turned to the crowd and displayed his muscles. He was stopped momentarily by Hawrich to potentially sign away a portion of his yearly earnings before he nimbly trotted up the steps to the platform to grip the handle of the weight. The drummer began again with a steady thrum. The farmhand heaved, and heaved, and became very red in the face. Every muscle of his strong arms seemed to bulge and threaten to burst forth. After several attempts, he gave up exhausted to a groan from the audience. He left the platform feeling dejected.
Unknown to the farmhand, a carny underneath the stage had attached a hook on a rope to a loop hanging from the underside of the iron weight. The hook held the weight fast to the platform, and all the while, the poor farmhand had been trying to lift the entire stage.
There was a sudden uproar and calls of ‘cheat’ or ‘fix’, and the audience stood as one to berate Hawrich. Draken stood next to his brother, and during the confusion Lordich struck, only his arm jarred unexpectedly as he withdrew Ædelmær’s coin pouch. The boy whirled to see Lordich frozen in shock. He had never been caught before now, and his legs would not move. Inside he screamed, run you fool. Still, his feet stayed rooted to the ground.
Ædelmær spotted his pouch in Lordich’s hand and glared at the young thief. He lunged for the dark haired boy, who only then found his legs and dodged past him, heading for the exit.
‘Come on, Drake,’ Ædelmær yelled, yanking his brother’s arm, ‘he has my coins!’
They raced after Lordich and had to fight through angry townspeople who had torn the stage apart, to find a surprised carny underneath. They had discovered the secret of the weight gag and were out for blood. Harwich had very sensibly disappeared.
Ædelmær and Draken exited the tent and looked left and right for the thief. They spotted him easily with his tall grey hat bobbing about his head and raced after him. Lordich turned abruptly to see that he was pursued, though unfortunately, as he did so, his hat fell over his eyes and obscured his view. As he turned back, he tripped over a guide rope holding the tent taut and crashed painfully onto the ground. The brothers caught up with him, and Ædelmær grabbed Lordich by the back of his jacket, twirling him around to face him. He brought his face close to his until they were nose-to-nose and glared menacingly into the boy’s eyes.
‘I got you, thief, where is my money?’ Ædelmær demanded, his voice sounding much braver than he felt.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Lordich snarled.
Ædelmær roughly shook the older boy and did not notice the fist that travelled fast towards his face. It collided with his jaw and momentarily threw him off balance, enough for Lordich to tear himself from his grasp and run for his life.
‘After him!’ Ædelmær yelled.
Draken nodded and made haste to follow, his long legs suited to the task. Ædelmær soon caught up, and they rounded the tent and sprinted toward the town. Lordich was quick on his toes, and Draken felt as if they would never catch him. Nevertheless, luck favoured the pursuers. As they reached the town square, the cobbles were slippery with the rain, and Lordich slipped and slid, thanks to metal studs on the soles of his boots, and he landed heavily on his haunches. He did not stay down long, however, and stood to face his marks, ready for anything. This time he withdrew a sharp, steel knife from his belt and brandished it at Ædelmær and Draken who had stopped a few wary feet away.
‘Come any closer, and I’ll use this.’ Lordich threatened his high-pitched, nervous squeak not at all matching the ferocity of his threat.
Draken boldly stepped forward, only to jump back quickly as Lordich slashed his weapon viciously through the air. Draken nodded to Ædelmær who began to circle the boy slowly. He did not take kindly to threats and would show this boy a thing or two about threatening someone.
Draken had become famous in those parts for his fighting skills, and would often battle with farmhands twice his size. Since he was wiry and lithe, he could often outpace his opponent. It did not always go to plan, however, and he would occasionally end up bloody and battered. His nose, a prime target due to being so large and prominent, had been broken many times.
Lordich backed off and looked for an escape route, though Ædelmær had been too quick for him and had cut off any chance to flee. Ædelmær made a play to charge the thief, as his brother had taught him on several occasions, and Lordich in his foolishness took his eye from Draken. In those few seconds, a dark shadow enveloped him. Draken grabbed Lordich by the shoulder and swung him around, where his fist contacted with the boy's jaw.
Lordich staggered and fell. The knife he held skidded across the cobbles of the square and Ædelmær bent to retrieve it. Draken reached down and picked Lordich up, and roughly thrust him towards Ædelmær, who dropped the knife and held the boy by the arms. Draken bore down on Lordich and raised his fists to strike him again.
A woman screamed, and a shout of ‘let the boy go’ rang out, but Draken ignored them. He punched Lordich in the gut ruthlessly and followed with an uppercut that sent the young man’s head backwards to strike Ædelmær. His brother let go of his prize and cradled a bloody nose, and Lordich dropped to his knees, winded by Draken’s blow.
Draken picked up the knife from where it lay and passed it from hand to hand, circling the boy on the ground. ‘Where is my brother’s money?’ he demanded.
Lordich spat blood from his mouth and looked at his attacker defiantly. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he growled.
Draken gripped Lordich by the collar and hauled him up. ‘Perhaps I should loosen your tongue with your cute little knife here,’ he said menacingly. He brought the knife into Lordich’s vision, and the boy visibly stiffened with fright.
Ædelmær stepped up from behind Lordich and wrenched the knife from his brother’s hand. ‘That’s enough, Drake. You go too far,’ he spat.
‘That’s correct; you are all under arrest for disturbing the peace.’
The three young men turned and found themselves staring into the eyes of a Brotherhood of The Wulf soldier. He had dismounted from his horse and handed the reins to his colleague. His breastplate glistened brightly in the rain, and his once white cloak appeared dull and grey. He strode forward, his hand outstretched to Ædelmær. ‘Hand me the knife, son; you don’t want to get hurt.’
Ædelmær looked affronted. Who was this stranger calling ‘son’? He appeared to be the same age as Draken, a mere four or five yea
rs older than he at best guesses—still that did not give him the right to call him son.
‘I said, hand over the knife. It will go worse for you if you do not,’ the soldier said, fingering the hilt of his sword as a sign that he meant business.
‘Jericho, is everything satisfactory?’ the soldier’s companion called.
Jericho raised his hand. ‘Everything is fine, Perindar, just watch the horses.’
Ædelmær stepped forward and tossed the knife at Jericho’s feet.
‘Good. Now, you, release the boy,’ Jericho demanded of Draken.
Draken reluctantly released Lordich who snarled at him and adjusted his collar. He immediately approached the soldier and dropped to his knees. ‘Thank you, oh thank you for saving me from a beating. I was going about my business when these two ruffians—’
‘Ruffians?’ Draken growled and joined Lordich. ‘This fellow stole my brother’s money purse. We were merely trying to recover it.’
‘Is this true?’ Jericho asked of Lordich.
Lordich looked at him as if the question was a dishonour. ‘I … I found it lying on the ground. I was returning it,’ he replied.
‘Then why did you run?’ Ædelmær asked.
‘I saw the look the tall boy gave me, and I grew scared,’ Lordich bluffed.
‘A likely story,’ Draken said, lunging for him.
‘Enough!’ Jericho bellowed. ‘You are all under arrest, and you will follow me to the Lord of the land and henceforth be tried for your crimes.’
‘Tried by the court for a scrap in the street?’ Draken asked disbelievingly.
‘The law is the law. You will come with me now,’ Jericho ordered and withdrew his sword.
‘You do know our father is Lord Wulf?’ said Ædelmær, in the hope that the name and title would somehow let him off the charge.
‘Then I am sure your father will be very displeased with his two titled boys fighting with a commoner.’ Jericho pointed his sword in the direction of a large manor house that overlooked the town, high on a hill. ‘I take it the Lord lives that way?’
The Aduramis Chronicles: Volumes 1-3: The Definitive Collection Page 39