by James Abbott
‘This cause won’t win us renown, there will be no crowds cheering you on. It is not so that we can conquer or defend territory for the honour of our king. The complete opposite, in fact. Our king is corrupt: people are being driven from their homes. Homes that you once shared with them.’ He pointed at Harrand. ‘People who have done nothing to deserve it are being tortured. There are strange beings and creatures walking through our forests. Villages being purged, innocents are being slaughtered. So what we are about to do, Harrand, is nothing to do with winning fame and rewards. It is about keeping the civilized world in order. Because if we do not, there will be no messing about in barrooms. There will be no sly conversations with a serving girl to entertain your dreams of slipping a hand up her skirt. You will not have the luxury in which to be ill-mannered. There will simply be chaos.’
Valderon helped himself to some of the food. Harrand glared at him. Landril wondered if something more would come of it.
‘Anyone who wants to go can go.’ Valderon ripped apart a piece of bread. ‘But the world is changing. Has changed. You’ll have to travel a long way to find a peaceful country, and even then you’ll have restless dreams of your old home. It’ll be prison all over again. The only walls that exist will be in your head – and they’ll be impossible to tear down.’
No one said anything. Heavy footsteps approached from behind.
Breaking the tension, Xavir stepped into the room. He was carrying a small leather-wrapped book in his right hand and tossed it across towards Landril. It landed on the table with a clatter, rattling his breakfast plate and knocking over a goblet of water.
‘This is General Havinir’s diary.’ Xavir folded his arms, leaning against the wall by the window. ‘I found it in his room.’
Landril eagerly unwrapped the book and began flicking through the pages.
‘Voldirik rangers,’ Xavir said aloud. ‘That’s what he calls our new foe – their soldiers at least. He mentioned the name to me, though it meant nothing. There seems good reason why we don’t know much about these Voldiriks. They’re not of our land at all.’
Landril began to scan the text until he came across the words Xavir had spoken. He read aloud for all to hear.
They came to my forests today, the Voldirik rangers. They assure me they are here temporarily. They have brought with them one of their wayseers, for which I am truly honoured. Mardonius has blessed me indeed with such favour, though I suspect he is as much interested in their results as I am.
Landril skimmed forwards several pages.
The Voldirik wayseer is a strange woman. She has entirely black eyes, set in an otherwise perfectly elegant human face. In her shimmering, many-hued gown she came to the basement to inspect our specimens. The four townspeople have been dead for five years now and their decay has not even begun. The flensed victim is fascinating still, for all the organs and muscles and tendons still seem healthy. The secrets to life are being unlocked before our very eyes.
‘That was two years ago.’ Landril looked up and shook his head. ‘They have been conducting experiments on people.’
‘It is disgusting.’ Valderon gave a heavy frown, as if he now bore the burden of their fate. ‘And for what?’
Landril continued once again:
The wayseer does not or will not speak much of our language like some of the more established rangers, but I understood that she was impressed. Her obsession for knowledge is typical of the Voldirik race. They have, under cover, scoured the libraries of Stravimon, the script halls of the royal palace, and yet she wants to know more about our land. Their desperation to acquire information and wisdom knows no bounds. That is how they have grown so much as a race and come to dominate such a vast territory beyond our shores. They are wisdom hoarders.
Landril placed the open book down upon the table and brought a steeple of his hands to his chin. ‘Well . . . some answers at last.’
‘Whoever has the wisdom has the authority,’ Xavir repeated. ‘It is what Havinir said. It is what we saw written in his underground chambers. It was as if the mighty general was in thrall to these people.’
‘Vol-di-rik,’ Davlor said, stifling a belch. ‘Never heard of them, not that I pay attention to these things.’
‘There’s not a lot you have heard of,’ Tylos said, ‘so that is not exactly saying much.’
‘To be fair to Davlor,’ Landril said, ‘even I hadn’t really heard of them until now.’ He tapped the pages of the diary with his finger. ‘I would like to spend more time with this. Perhaps Birgitta should be made aware of it too.’
Xavir tilted his head to the window. ‘She’s outside with Lupara.’
‘And your daughter?’ Landril asked.
‘My daughter,’ Xavir repeated, a half-smile upon his face. ‘What strange words.’
‘I wouldn’t worry,’ Jedral announced, ‘if Tylos’s tales are to be believed, he’s probably got several of his own offspring scattered about Chambrek that he doesn’t know about.’
Tylos gave nothing but a smile. ‘I’m certain those words will become natural soon enough, Xavir. Familiarity is a matter of repetition. How did she fare in the mission?’
‘Very well. Her skills with a bow are unusual, but I cannot deny how lethal she is. She killed a man for the first time today. Many men, in fact.’
‘She takes after her father in that respect,’ Jedral said. The others gave a gentle laugh.
‘A walk in the garden will do her good,’ Tylos said. ‘Killing can be quite the burden at first. But these new people, these Voldirik rangers. What are we to make of them?’
‘From reading briefly through this diary,’ Xavir announced, ‘I believe them to be the source of Mardonius’s extra military power. Where the Stravimon legions could not be convinced to kill their own people a new race would think nothing of it. Havinir speaks of desertions from the main legions – and rebel groups protecting certain towns. But of “conversions”, too, and I do not know yet what this means. There may be hope for our own cause if we can bring these factions together. It is clear that, for the tyrant, all was not as smooth as we thought.’
‘Comforting news,’ Valderon said. ‘But where have these Voldiriks come from?’
Xavir was still facing the sunlit garden. Landril thought him young-looking with the bright light hiding the blemishes of time. ‘Stravimon has ownership of islands off the far western shore; there are ports there, for vessels carrying cargo a king wishes to keep quiet. One lies to far the north-west of Stravimon’s coast – called Port Phalamys – and that is where the Voldirik ships arrive.’
‘This is all getting a bit heady for me.’ Davlor rose from the table and sauntered to the door. ‘I’m going to find me a decent sword. Who’s up for it?’
Harrand said, still staring narrow-eyed at Valderon, ‘Why not? Someone needs to make sure you don’t cut yourself.’
Harrand, Davlor and Grend piled out of the doorway, leaving Landril with just Tylos, Valderon and Xavir.
‘What is your plan, spymaster?’ Xavir asked, with a knowing glance. Landril was still too busy watching Harrand leave the room. ‘You look as though you have one.’
Landril leaned back in his chair. ‘I must investigate the past. To do that I need to visit any of Stravimon’s libraries, if anything remains of them.’
‘Where is the nearest library?’ Xavir asked.
‘I believe there is one local to your other targets,’ Landril said. ‘As it’s not in Stravir City and therefore an obvious place, it means that the Voldiriks would not necessarily have gone there to accumulate wisdom, or eradicate knowledge of their existence in this world. If I may be permitted to accompany you . . . ?’
‘I planned on going alone at first. The witches would be useful, if you could spare them, Valderon?’
‘The witches? I see no reason why not,’ Valderon said. ‘Although I take it by the request that your stance to the sisterhood is softening?’
Xavir shrugged. ’They’re useful.’
‘I am not completely a monster,’ Xavir said.
‘Take who you need,’ Valderon said. ‘It is not as though we have an army yet, ready to march on Mardonius. And our road changes direction with every mile.’
‘Here is what I think we must do, then,’ Landril said, scraping back his chair. He began to pace the room. ‘Xavir and myself – with the help of the witches – we will leave in the morning. We’ll head in the direction of Golax Hold, the town where Duchess Pryus has her estate. Lord Kollus oversees the affairs of the settlement. The two have grown close of late.’
‘Golax Hold,’ Valderon repeated. ‘Never liked the place. A granite cesspool. It got far more of the king’s coin than any other town, for no good reason.’
‘Well, for one reason at least,’ Landril said. ‘It had powerful residents. Cedius never liked sending money that way, so I’ve learned, but it was where the influential folk tended to gather, ever since the reign of Queen Stallax sixty years ago.’
‘Tyrannical woman,’ Valderon added. ‘She spilled far more blood than is decent. Might have known Stallax set up a place like that.’
‘Cedius spoke of her often,’ Xavir added. ‘Despite the amount of blood she spilled, much of Stravir’s infrastructure is down to her. The trading patterns are down to her. The mines. The lingering tribal hatred . . . King Grendux, Cedius’s predecessor, could not erase her trace and Cedius chose not to bother. Which is why a place like Golax still clings onto power. She was a canny woman, Stallax.’
‘Well, to this day,’ Landril continued, ‘that’s where coin ended up to buy favours or ease some political point. It won’t be easy to get in – the town is, or was, well defended. But it has ample resources and, just as important for me, it has one of Stravimon’s many libraries. I need to find out more about who these Voldirik creatures are. If Birgitta is with me to aid with the research, that’s all the better.’
‘And what of us?’ Tylos asked with no agenda as he sat back in his chair. ’We just sit here and wait for you to return?’
‘You have work to do as well,’ Landril said. ‘Valderon and Lupara must build the army that is desired. You have the wealth and a headquarters. You must recruit and train, and gather what men will join you. Your work here will form the backbone of what we do.’
‘Administration . . .’ Tylos sighed. ‘You were my gang leader, Xavir. It seems natural to continue with you.’ He leaned forwards to Valderon, and was very frank. ‘This is nothing personal, you understand? You are a good man. Merely my loyalties have been with Xavir for so long.’
Valderon waved away the comment. ‘Understandable, Tylos, and I respect you for it.’
Xavir, arms folded, still casually regarding the distance as if this conversation was the kind of thing he had been through many times before over the years, said eventually, ‘It’s important that the men get behind Valderon, Tylos. You have more sense than any of them, and the others look up to you for that, so it will be important that they see you supporting Valderon. What I need to do relies upon stealth. I will strike Pryus and Kollus like an assassin, not as a soldier. There is no honour in what I do, but it is a necessity if we want a clear run at Mardonius without his cronies rushing to his aid.’
‘So be it,’ Tylos said.
‘Remember that Valderon was a commander in the First Legion,’ Xavir continued, ‘not the second, nor third. He knows how armies function. Put your faith in that.’
Valderon appeared faintly embarrassed by the praise.
Tylos offered a hand to Valderon and the two shook. Landril hoped it was the last breaking of the old gang ties and a continuation of the relationships that had been building over their journey. Former foes had become united in a common cause of survival.
Landril closed the book and tucked it under his arm, then made his farewells and walked along the corridor. He stood in the front, pillared entranceway, regarding the overgrown garden. He had tried not to reveal his deep concern earlier. No one else, apart from Xavir, seemed to understand the worrying implications about an entirely new type of people coming into this world. That there had been experiments on people from a nearby town was unnerving. Why were they conducting such research, and what was Havinir’s role in it all?
Whoever has the wisdom has the authority.
The phrase had been much repeated, according to Xavir. The general had chosen to utter it as his final words. The note contained it. The diary revealed it. Was this the purpose of the Voldirik people, to deepen their knowledge?
Landril hoped there would be answers forthcoming at Golax Hold.
A Tactical Move
Idle chatter drifted in front of the fire for many hours. Grend had found a good supply of seasoned firewood and managed to build an impressive fire in the hearth of one of the manse’s dusty front parlours. Plush furnishings were rearranged and brought forwards to the light. A supply of decent wine had been discovered, too, and Landril thought that such a discovery never worsened an evening.
Upon request from the other men, Valderon told tales of the First Legion, of their huge campaign through the salt flats of the north, into the lands of Kolpor and Roj, and of the enormous Ghosts of the Coast defence where a fleet of Rojan pirates had gathered in their thousands to destroy and raid the settlements in the far reaches of Stravimon. Cedius had given every man who returned from the campaign an extra flagon of ale for his efforts and rewarded the bravest with coin and honours. Not once did Valderon mention his own heroic efforts, but those of the men who had stood around him.
During the entire tale, Landril watched Harrand.
As the fire burned on, the old man continued to stare with rage at the former legionary. Landril didn’t like the dark look that glimmered in his eyes or the way he touched his knives while glaring at Valderon’s back.
I’ve seen that look before. Blood will be spilled if we don’t take care.
Eventually, one by one, everyone decided to head upstairs to rest for the night. Valderon was first. Harrand stayed sitting by the fire, staring at the flames and sharpening his blades.
Landril returned quickly to his quarters to retrieve the small parcel of mushrooms that he had taken from the forest near Lupara’s cabin – the same mushrooms that Davlor had touched by accident. He used a small knife to shave the surface of one of the mushrooms into a tin cup, into which he poured a glug of Chambrek red. He poured a cup for himself and walked back to the parlour.
Harrand was still there, as Tylos, the only other to remain, moved into the corridor, bidding him goodnight.
‘Just us two left,’ Landril declared, thrusting a cup into Harrand’s hands. ‘You’re a curious fellow, you know.’
‘How so?’
‘I know so little about you,’ Landril said, sipping his own wine.
‘Got little to say, spy.’
‘Spymaster,’ Landril corrected. ‘Years of training marks the difference between a spy and a spymaster.’
‘Such as?’
‘A spy merely observes and reports, in order to develop trust. Once trust is established, then the proper education begins.’ Landril took another sip of the wine and said, ‘These people from Chambrek, they know how to make good wine.’
It was enough of a nudge for Harrand to take a sip, which he did, and placed the cup back down on the side table.
‘The guild of spymasters,’ Landril continued, ‘is an elite institution with its headquarters in Stravir City. For nine hundred years its members have been assigned to royals, businessmen, dukes, courtiers, just about anyone . . .’
Harrand hunched forwards suddenly, clutching his throat. In great heaves he attempted to vomit, but nothing came out. Landril watched him insouciantly as he collapsed, his body shuddering violently as if in a fit. And then, just as suddenly, he became still, eyes fixed to the roof and his face frozen in a rictus of pain.
As Landril checked for signs of life
, a voice called out from the doorway: ‘I never liked the man, but I had no need to kill him.’
Landril rose, processing the scene in his mind to work out how much Tylos knew or had worked out.
‘He doesn’t like Chambrek red.’
‘Nonsense,’ Tylos said, marching into the firelight. His expression was unreadable. ‘It is a most agreeable wine.’
Landril placed his hands behind his back so Tylos wouldn’t be able to see his twitching fingers. Displaying an utter air of calm, Landril sauntered back to his chair and slumped into it with a sigh.
‘Why did you do it?’ Tylos asked.
‘Do what?’
‘Come now.’ Tylos sat down next to him, reached for the cup of wine without a thought, and began to bring it to his lips.
‘Don’t!’ Landril hissed, his heart thumping.
Tylos smiled. ‘As if I would,’ he said, pouring the contents onto the floor. ‘Now, I am not stupid. Why did you do it?’
‘He was going to kill Valderon.’
Tylos appeared thoughtful. ‘Valderon would have killed him, if he had tried.’
‘That was possible,’ Landril replied, ‘but it would have had a bad effect on morale if he had killed one of our own. There would have been mistrust, at the very least, that old politics had been brought into play again. That mistrust would then spread throughout whatever army we bring together. People would talk behind Valderon’s back about it. And, besides, I just could not take any risks.’
‘You cannot control everything.’
‘You are wise, black man,’ Landril said. ‘But I have spent my entire life controlling things.’
‘I am observant, that is all,’ he replied. ‘Now. What do we do with his body? What is our explanation to the others?’
‘His heart gave out,’ Landril replied. ‘We should arrange him in a chair, by the fire. We should try to make him look serene.’