Sigourd crossed the room and took up the artifact, turning it over in his hands it was as if a shadow passed over him, darkening his mood still further.
Cal had been Sigourd’s mentor since the time he could walk, guiding him toward a nobler path with a reassuring twinkle in his eye. But more than a mentor, Cal had been a true and trusted friend, someone that Sigourd had ever relied upon in times of need.
Cal’s words came to him now, as he looked down at the vambrace; ‘Responsibility is a funny thing. Although it may seem a tall task it has the possibility to develop the best in us all’.
None knew better than Cal how Sigourd had railed against his formal obligations to the state. Oh the young lord was dedicated enough to the people of Atos in his own way, but the reality of one day taking leadership had always given Sigourd cause to brood. In truth he feared the responsibility. Dreaded the prospect of having the mantle of leadership placed upon him. To be responsible for the numberless lives of the people of this realm. Too much.
But rescuing Isolde and avenging Cal was something that Sigourd felt he could do. More than that it was something he wanted to do, the twin passions of love and vengeance burning incandescently within his heart. Those emotions were entirely in opposition to the cold logic ringing in his head like a tocsin bell, warning him to heed the directions of his father.
Then he heard it. The chirruping of some bird outside his window, just as when Isolde had come to him after the banquet, when she had arrived at his door to soothe his raging temper.
Sigourd pushed himself off the bed, wincing as needles of pain from his various injuries spiraled into him.
There at the widow ledge, fluttering beyond the glass as it had done before, was the little nightingale. Its sweet singing bringing back to Sigourd in a flood all his passionate concern for Isolde, all his anger at the bloody demise of his trusted steward.
Sigourd’s expression hardened into a mask of hardened resolve, all of his doubt subsumed by that burning fire in his heart.
CHAPTER 6
Wheels within wheels...
Sigourd stood in his chamber, his war gear laid out before him. Armored plates of burnished magnificence crafted by the finest smiths in his fathers armoires. The intricate detailing of greaves and gauntlets, cuirass and shoulder pauldrons was something to behold, almost a work of art in itself. Most magnificent of all was the full faced helmet with a flowing red plume of dyed horse hair that would cascade down Sigourd’s back whenever he wore the suit on parade.
It had been a gift from his father upon his eighteenth birthday, and Sigourd had beamed with pride the first time Cal had helped to strap the heavy plating to his young master’s frame.
Sigourd had always wondered how it would feel to bear the armor into combat, to be sheathed in its glory as he smote down the foes of his realm and his people.
Perhaps now he would never get the chance to find out.
Where he was going the armor would be more hinderance than help. He would be traveling far into lands unknown, and aside from the practical considerations of taking with him the heavy suit, he would need to remain inconspicuous if he was to have any hope of tracking Isolde and her captors.
He turned instead to his hunting breeches and a thick leather jerkin that that suited far better the nature of his quest. Picking up the breeches from where they lay he began to pull them on.
Next, Sigourd opened a heavy oak chest that lay beside his armor, and from it extracted his sword. Its tempered steel glittered like ice as he drew it from its protective sheath to examine the blade. The weapon was a touch shorter than was customary with the standard practices of the sword smiths, but it was perhaps the most finely balanced blade Sigourd ever had cause to wield.
Beyond the thin glass of the windows that overlooked the city, the sun was setting, a blaze of amber that flared dazzlingly on the horizon, the sky above deepening to pinks and purples and finally a dark bruised blue where a crescent moon hung serenely.
Smoke from the recent inferno that had swept the eastern section of the castle still hung in the air over the city, hazing the brilliance of the setting sun, magnifying it to a strange glow that settled over everything.
Sigourd squinted into that light, contemplating the road ahead, his mind swimming with doubt for the course he was setting out to undertake, but his heart swelling with a fierce determination that he would see this journey through to its ultimate conclusion. For good or ill.
Mortaron stood on the balcony that extended from his own private study overlooking the smoking ruin of the east section.
An ordinary citizen of the city may well marvel in horror and fascination at the destruction wrought there, and at the terrible beauty of the sun setting behind the pall of smoke that still hung over Corrinth Vardis in the wake of the destruction. The myriad colors that filtered through the soot and ash, the encroaching darkness of the sky at night beyond the crown of fading sunlight settled upon the distant horizon.
An ordinary citizen may well indeed marvel at those sights, but such sentimentality was beyond Vincenzo Mortaron. He looked out upon the city with a cold avarice, the way a reptile might study its prey. With a calculating, predatory desire that would chill the hearts of any who might be unlucky enough to intrude upon his thoughts.
Sweeping from his balcony and back into the chamber beyond, Mortaron settled himself behind his desk. A monstrous thing carved from oak and adorned with the intricate workings of some brooding artificer tooled into the surface of the dark wood.
The study itself was as dark as the polished surface of the desk. Candles recessed into sconces in the wall cast their meagre glow upon shelves crammed with the leather bound offerings of various literary masters. The subjects ranging from ordnance laws concerning the greater city of Corrinth Vardis to the dark practices of the hill tribes during the early part of the second century.
Mortaron was a man who understood the power of knowledge, the leverage that one might be able to wield given the proper application of such knowledge, and the control that it would bestow upon the person who knew how to apply that leverage.
Above all else, it was this power that Mortaron sought. It was the thing that drove him so relentlessly, and he would continue onwards toward the possession of such power until he was able to harness it totally or until it ground him into oblivion.
In his quieter moments he was able to stand back from himself and glimpse with a measure of curiosity the thing inside him that strove so tirelessly toward that ambition. Like a dark lake at the center of his soul, to harness such a resource was power in itself, and Mortaron was only too aware of how close he’d come, on several occasions throughout the course of his life, to drowning in that lake. To losing himself entirely to that part of himself that was rapacious, unrelenting...fathomless.
An opportunity had presented itself that he could not have counted on if all the planets in the heavens had aligned. An opportunity that would take him a step closer to mastery of all he surveyed. With the fool prince bent on the rescue of his beloved wench, and The Regent unwilling to commit to any sort of rescue attempt, it would only be a short matter of time before the headstrong boy would decide to take matters into his own hands.
Here in the castle, there were too many eyes, too much risk of being discovered if Mortaron were to unseat the boy from his position as regent to be.
But outside the castle was a different story altogether. There were countless ways in which a young man might meet his end.
The unfortunate resurgence of those vermin wulfen might be turned to Mortaron’s design after all. He would be able to rid himself of their threat and the only impediment to his ascension to the throne of Corrinth Vardis after he had seen through his plan to remove The Regent from his position.
On the other side of the heavy oak desk stood the hulking form of the knight Huron. He glowered from beneath a mane of lank, dark hair. His single eye glinting there within the shadows that caressed his craggy face like a distant star
twinkling in the night sky.
It occurred to Mortaron that even he didn’t know the truth as to how the hulk had lost the other star. The rumor was that it had been plucked out of his skull by a mountain cat when Huron had been a boy. He’d ventured too far into the cracked and craggy ranges of the mountains that bordered the eastern plateaus and the creature had pounced upon him. He’d managed to kill it by ringing its neck, but not of course before the cat had left its mark.
That was probably the most popular of the stories concerning the missing eye. But it was one of many and only Huron knew the proximity of it to the actual truth.
Understandably so, there were few in the castle who’d have the nerve to ask such a question of the knight, and of those few that did possess such fortitude it would have been deemed too impolite to ask.
Mortaron didn’t particularly care either way. To him the knight was a tool, a device to be used as one might utilize a good sharp knife to peel an apple, or in Huron’s case, swing a hammer to pulverize that apple into slush.
Perched upon the giant’s shoulder was the war hawk, it flared its mighty wings, shuffling feathers as it settled to regard The Baron with rheumy black eyes. It was not lost on the him that to many he probably shared a measure of resemblance with the creature. This amused Mortaron no end.
‘What are your orders, lord?’ said the knight.
‘The boy prince plans on leaving the castle. You will follow him wherever he goes, but never allow him knowledge of your presence.’
‘And to where does he travel, lord?’
‘He seeks a girl. But regardless of his intentions, whomever he finds as the end of his journey, I will not suffer them to live,’ scowled Mortaron.
‘I understand, lord.’
‘See that you do.’
‘And what of the young lord?’
The Baron paused, considering his next words carefully, ‘the world beyond the walls of the city is a dangerous place. Terrible things might befall a young fool who spends the currency of his life recklessly.’
Huron did not respond immediately, uncertain that he had inferred The Baron’s meaning correctly.
‘You mean that if the young lord resists I am to....’
‘You are to do whatever is necessary to ensure that his journey ends with the elimination of all who are there to witness it. No survivors.
A shadow of uncertainty passed across the face of the knight Huron, there and gone in an instant, before he bowed his head and turned to march from the chamber.
Mortaron had noted the hesitation in the knight, a trait usually nowhere to be found about his person. Although Huron was sworn to his service, perhaps asking him to move against the family Fellhammer had been a command too far. The knight would have to be watched carefully.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, stolen from the sky by the curve of the world, and day gave way to night the people of the great city of Corrinth Vardis, returning from their days work toiling in the fields or trading with the villages to the south were flocking back to to the city.
Returning in their droves through the massive iron wrought gates of the north wall. Affectionately known as ‘Sebastapold’s yawn’ in honor of one of the city’s long dead monks who was possessed of an exceptionally loud mouth, the laborers and traders hurried through that portal before its heavy iron lattice of a spiked grille was lowered for the night, to clank shut loudly as its iron teeth bit into the floor below. Once shut, it served the purpose of effectively sealing off the city from outside threat.
Moving in opposition to the crowd, a lone figure moved through the masses against the flow of traffic, like a fish that swims upstream in defiance of raging currents. That figure, coweled and hooded moved between the press of bodies as deftly as it might, trying its best not to attract the attention of the city guard, who watched over the gateway, concentrating far more intently on those who would enter the city than those who were trying to leave unnoticed.
Sigourd kept to the main body of the mass, drawing the occasional irritated comment or scowl from those he moved against. He tried his best to carefully avoid barging the tired and grumpy individuals who comprised the returning workforce, but here and there it was impossible not to bump into folk, who would turn and snap off a derisive comment or bump him back in annoyance.
Sigourd was of course free to leave the city as and when he pleased, provided of course it did not countermand the orders of his father. But if he were to announce his departure at the gate, as he would ordinarily be obliged to do, then it would have instantly been reported to the master of watch, who would have notified the head of the castle guard, and word would have made its way back to his father before an hour had passed.
Given the current state of affairs, The Regent would of course immediately dispatch riders to fetch Sigourd back to the castle, and that was something he couldn’t afford. He needed at least a full day’s head start to be sure he’d loose any pursuit that might be sent after him.
It was all Sigourd could do to keep his head down and keep pushing forward, struggling through the tangle of bodies and whispering the occasional apology whenever he caught someone.
When he felt he was a safe distance from the sight of the city guard, Sigourd began to make his way from the centre of the column to its flanks, no easy task to be sure, so that he might slip from the column into the woods to the south east of the city and disappear through those.
Eventually, he had made his way to the edge of the line, and continuing to track back along its length he moved to a position parallel with the edge of the woods before making his break for cover. Keeping his head bowed and striding purposefully from the edge of the crowd he moved to the tree line, ducking quickly into the foliage.
Once safely secreted amongst the thick bracken and fen, Sigourd chanced a look back in the direction from which he had come. There was no sign of any pursuit, no sign that anything was amiss whatsoever. The endless line of city dwellers continued to push on inexorably toward the north wall, disappearing into Sebastapold’s yawn like mead poured freely into the gob of a thirsty beggar.
He took a last fleeting look at the city, twinkling in the encroaching gloom of night, before he turned and disappeared into the enfolding darkness of the woods.
High overhead, unnoticed by Sigourd or almost any other, a bird wheeled in the sky above the old wood. The war hawk gave a single piercing shriek before diving into the forest canopy and out of sight.
From the edge of the wood another shadow, observing silently from saddle atop a battle steed the color of spent coal, had witnessed Sigourd’s escape to the safety of the woods.
Huron tugged at the reigns of the steed, turning the beast slowly to canter into the forest, so that he too was swallowed by the dark.
CHAPTER 7
A weary heart...
Bael stood on the edge of the world, watching the wan morning sun cresting the peaks of the jagged Ash’harad. Those distant mountain ranges jutted up out of the earth like savage teeth, biting into the pallid flesh of the lightening sky where heavy storm clouds gathered. Snow was falling lightly, delicate flakes settling upon Bael’s hard features.
Beyond the Ash’harad lay the valley in which he and his people made their home. It would be many days more travel before they would see the lush green of the valley. The route through the mountain ranges would take most of their time, and sap most of their strength.
He looked directly into the light of the cresting sun without sheltering his eyes, as if daring that celestial body to force him to look away. He surveyed the expanse of peaks and rocky valleys that lay spread out before them as far as the eye could see, and pondered what other trials lay ahead of them.
In truth, as far as he saw it this whole enterprise was a wasted effort, one that was certain to cost his people far more than they could afford to give. Arook had led them down this path based on a misguided belief in some ancient prophecy. Such a waste.
Up here, so high above everything the ai
r was thin and the bitter winds whipped between the peaks, howling and moaning like the freed spirits of the dammed.
From behind him, one of the others in the pack approached, his hood pulled up high to fend off the biting winds. Bael picked up his scent in the wind before he even heard him approach.
‘A storm is coming. We should find shelter before it catches us out in the open,’ said Nartaba as he came to stand beside his pack leader.
Bael did not respond, content to merely continue staring out over the vast expanse of the mountain ranges arrayed before them. He could sense Nartaba’s disquiet at recent events, and in truth knew that he was right to be concerned. But Bael didn’t much care to discuss what may or may not come to pass as a result of his previous actions. He was content to allow Nartaba to speak his mind, but would not allow himself to be drawn into further fruitless discussion on the subject.
They had snatched the serving girl Isolde as planned, and had made sure that the young prince had been there to witness it. They had not considered that he might have brought assistance with him, and in Bael’s view slaying the old soldier had been an acceptable act, if not entirely necessary.
‘He will be displeased,’ stated Nartaba finally, as if unable to hold his tongue any longer. ‘We should not have acted so conclusively.’
‘Butchering cattle will make little difference to the outcome.’
‘Arook will see it as failure on our part.’
Bael snorted, ‘he is too hidebound to see it any other way.’
From out of the swirling snow and bitter winds, another voice added itself to the conversation.
‘And what exactly am I too hidebound to see?’
Bael and Nartaba swung around to face whom it was that addressed them. Stepping out of the gathering maelstrom, his fine clothes exchanged for more careworn and sturdy garments of leather and thickly knitted cottons of a dark hue, it was the man with the craggy features who had so startled Veronique to see.
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