by Clare Smith
As he changed he chewed on the dried meat and journey bread, taking small bites of raw onion to give it some flavour and washing it down with a few sips of the cheap wine. It would have been more palatable if he could have made a fire and cooked a stew but he had no water or cooking pot; Sarrat’s troop had travelled fast and light. Instead he chewed the food, stared at the body in the tree and thought about what he should do next. He had commanded men since before Sarrat had become king but there had always been someone to command him and tell him what to do. Now he was alone and the task of deciding what was best was beyond him. He only knew that he had to get his master’s body back for proper burial so he concentrated on doing just that.
He knew that Great Lord Andron held all the lands north east of the forest and whilst Tarmin would probably be closer he would have to travel a day and a night just to reach the edge of the forest with Sarrat’s body draped across the horse. The chances of getting safely out of the dense woodland and into the open countryside before the sly hunters picked up the scent of fresh meat was slight and he didn’t care for the idea of confronting them again. Andron’s estate was further away but the forest edge was closer, less than half a day’s ride, so most of the journey would be over open farm land and he was bound to find help on the way. Apart from that the Great Lord would know what to do with the body and how to go about finding a new king.
Using the horse to give him extra height he tugged on Sarrat’s dangling arm and tried to dislodge him from the tree but he was held fast between the forks of the branch. With a curse at his stupidity he climbed up onto the saddle and balanced precariously until he could heave himself back into the tree. Once there he tried to straighten Sarrat’s body so he could lower it to the ground but it had already become stiff and he realised that the only way he was going to get the body out of the tree was to break the corpse’s bones.
Gartnor wasn’t squeamish but it just didn’t seem right to him to do more damage to the body of the king as if it were just the remains of some peasant. Still muttering curses under his breath he lowered himself from the tree, retrieved the dead soldier’s blanket from behind the horse’s saddle and climbed back up. If he was going for help he needed proof that the king was dead otherwise the suspicious Great Lord would think that Sarrat had set a trap for him.
He tugged urgently at the ring with the royal seal on Sarrat’s finger but the finger had swollen and the ring wouldn’t budge. Unable to think of any alternative he took out his knife, cut the finger off and slid the ring onto his own hand, putting the severed finger into Sarrat’s pocket for safe keeping. As carefully as he could he wrapped the blanket tightly around the corpse, ensuring that any exposed flesh was covered and safe from the carrion feeders. Finally he tied the corpse to the branch so that nothing would pull it free and eased himself back to the ground.
By the time he’d finished the morning had gone and the sun’s rays had shifted to slant in through the trees at a different angle. Honey makers swarmed lazily in the warm still air and black buzzers crawled over the dried blood on the ground and the pile of discarded clothes. The horse was restless and in need of water and he needed to be clear of the forest before dark closed in. He marked the tree with his knife so that he could find it again, gave the wrapped corpse one last look and hoped that he had done enough to keep it safe from the sly hunters or anything else which hunted in the forest canopy. With that thought he climbed onto the weary horse and rode north east.
*
Gartnor stood as close to attention as his exhausted body and bound hands would allow as he thought of his journey. It had taken him longer to make his way through the close packed trees than he had thought it would so the sun had just set as he left the forest. He marked the last tree in a long line which went back to the everleaf in which Sarrat’s body lay and then he had travelled for most of the night without stopping using the North Star to guide him. Fortunately it had been a clear moonlit night which allowed him to guide his weary horse safely around the many ditches and walls separating field from field in Andron’s patchwork estate. When the North Star had dropped behind the horizon he stopped his horse, tumbled from the saddle and fell asleep on the ground beneath it.
Rain splashing onto his face just before dawn had dragged him from his exhausted sleep and he had stumbled onwards leading his lame horse down a muddy farm track that seemed to have no end. He was soaked through by the time he had eaten the last of his travel bread and had swallowed the last dregs of the sour wine. In the heavy rain which sheeted across the fields he had no idea how far he still had to travel to reach Andron’s manor house, but as there was no shelter nearby and he didn’t even have the protection of a cloak, he had no option but to keep going. Footsore, he had mounted his wretched horse and continued going straight into the wind and rain, which he guessed by its coldness, was coming from the north.
The horse died around midday. He had felt it shudder beneath him before it started to stumble so he had released his feet from the stirrups and rolled off the animal before it could crash to the ground and crush him. Whilst the horse took its last laboured gasps he undid the saddle and heaved the horse blanket free just as the last quiver left its body. The blanket was thick and matted and smelled strongly of horse and rotting leather, but it was better than nothing, so he pulled it over his head and around his shoulders to protect himself from the rain and the cold.
It was getting dark by the time he found the roadway which was lit by the moon that had risen from behind ragged clouds. He trudged on and eventually staggered to the gates of the fortified estate house where he dropped wearily to his knees. Despite the heavy rain the wind had died down but he still had to use the hilt of his sword to pound on the gates until someone heard him. Two guards, who were annoyed at having to go out into the wet, picked him up and dragged him inside where he tried to tell them who he was but they just took his weapons, his coin pouch and precious ring and locked him in a stone out house until morning. He had a vague memory of arguing with them and hitting one on the jaw but after that everything was blank.
Now he stood in the Great Lord’s stable yard with his hands bound in front of him and with four hostile guards surrounding him as they waited for Great Lord Andron to arrive. He hoped the Lord wouldn’t linger too long over his breakfast as he didn’t think he could stand to attention for much longer.
When the Great Lord strode into the stable yard Gartnor recognised him immediately. Andron was a tall man with red tinted hair and a drooping moustache of the same coppery shade beneath a long, thin nose. He usually wore bright red or orange clothing to set off his colouring but today he wore dark riding leathers and was armed with a heavy sword and a long side knife.
Gartnor had seen him many times at court dressed up in his finery like a coolly bird but, despite his flamboyant dress, he knew that Andron was the most intelligent, if not the most trustworthy, of the three Great Lords. At one time he had been a supporter of King Malute and had acted as one of his chief advisors but had been bright enough to make a show of changing his allegiance to Sarrat when he had taken the throne. Gartnor wondered what sort of king he would make.
Behind Andron stood his Guard Captain, a stout man of advancing years with a balding head and red nose from drinking too much grain spirit. He had once been a soldier of some renown but now looked more like a steward than a fighting man. Gartnor smiled to himself; if he played his cards right and supported Andron in his claim to the throne there could be a place for him at the new king’s side after all. He watched as the two men approached, coming to a stop an arm’s length in front of him before he gave a brief bow to the Great Lord.
“Where did you get this?” demanded Andron not bothering with an introduction but just holding out the royal signet ring in the palm of his hand.
“From the finger of King Sarrat, My Lord”
The Great Lord looked behind his prisoner as if he were expecting the King to be waiting there. “And where is the King?”
; “I think, Lord Andron, I should answer your question in private.”
Andron took an angry step forward and raised his hunting whip. “How dare you, you insolent cur! I’ll have you….” He stopped in mid sentence and stared at the ragged man in front of him. “Gartnor? Captain Gartnor?”
“Yes, My Lord. We do need to talk in private.”
“Hellden’s balls, man! Whatever has happened to you?” Andron looked more shocked than Gartnor had ever seen him; including the day that Sarrat had announced to the Great Lords that he was their king. “Untie this man and get him some decent clothes, food and wine then bring him to my chambers.” He turned on his heel and marched back into his estate house with his Guardcaptain trailing behind him.
When he was escorted into the Great Lord’s chambers two candle lengths later, Gartnor felt considerably better. He had washed away most of the blood and grime and now wore clean clothes. They were the simple garments which a servant might wear, a white shirt and tan breaches, and were not what he would have chosen himself but they fit reasonably well and they were warm and dry.
The only thing that was missing was having his sword at his side and he felt uncomfortable and only half dressed without it. He had eaten two bowls of hot oats and half a loaf covered in dripping as well as a large pot of mulled ale. His head throbbed slightly from tiredness and some of his abrasions stung from the healer’s attentions but apart from that he felt reasonably fit.
“You look better,” commented the Great Lord waving the guards away and indicating that he should sit. “Now, where’s the King?”
“The King is dead, My Lord, killed by Maladran the black outside of his tower.”
Andron visibly paled and sat down heavily in the chair opposite Gartnor. “Dead? Please go on.”
“There’s not much to tell. We were fighting the nomads on the border with Sandstrone and had almost pushed them back across the border when we captured Prince Kremin, the Rale of Sandstrone’s son. Under torture he told Sarrat that King Borman of Northshield had been supporting Sandstrone in its invasion of Leersland from the start. Sarrat was furious and rode with a small troop back to Tarmin to raise another army to take north and have his revenge.
On the way he stopped to pick up Maladran but the magician changed into some sort of demon or dragon and attacked us. Its talons ripped Sarrat from his horse’s saddle and flew away with him. Everyone else was killed by the creature, but I managed to survive so I followed its flight through the forest and eventually found the King’s body in a tree. I couldn’t move it by myself so I covered it the best I could and came straight here marking the trees on the way so that we could go back and find the body and take it back to Tarmin for burial.
“And the ring?”
“I cut it from his finger to use as proof that what I am telling you is the truth.”
“Does anyone else know?”
“No, My Lord. As I said, the rest of the troop was killed by the demon. I was the only survivor.”
Andron stood and started pacing the room, a deep frown on his face. He paced back and forth until Gartnor gave up following his movements and stared longingly at the empty goblet of wine on the table in front of him.
“You know what this means? It means that the throne is empty; Sarrat had no relatives and no named successors. It means that the first person who gets into the fortress and places the crown on their head will be the next King of Leersland.”
Gartnor nodded and had he not been so exhausted or so preoccupied he would have heard Andron’s change of pace and direction. As it was he only had a moment to cry out as the Great Lord’s long knife sliced through his throat spilling bright red blood cascading down his simple white peasant’s shirt.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
CHAPTER TWO
The Beast
The prisoner opened his eyes slowly and blinked into the almost total darkness, concentrating on the small square of light in the far corner where daylight filtered through an open metal grill in the wall high above him. He resisted the temptation to crawl towards it and instead closed his eyes and concentrated on his other senses. From the smell of stone and dirt he was in some sort of cellar far enough below ground for the cold to make him shiver but not so deep that light didn’t penetrate. The place also smelled of damp and he could hear the drip of water in what was otherwise total silence. The other smell was dried blood and he realized it was his own.
Carefully he sat up and winced at the sharp pain in his side. As he pulled himself across the dirt floor to prop himself up against the wall, the pain in his side spread across his chest and he gasped at its intensity. When he reached the wall he rested his head against its damp surface and winced again as the lump on the back of his head pressed against the stone. He gently felt the lump which was just above the base of his skull and his hand came away damp and sticky.
He closed his eyes to ease the pounding in his head and took stock of his injuries; slight concussion, a couple of cracked ribs and heavy bruising down one side, presumably from the heavy boots of Prince Newn’s royal guard. The fact that he was whole and the rest of him was relatively unharmed told him that the changes he had made to his appearance had worked well enough for him not to be recognized. Whilst he couldn’t see what he looked like in the dark, he was certain that his disguise still held. What he needed now was sleep and healing before they came back to question him again. He closed his eyes and was instantly asleep.
The man woke to the sound of his prison door being opened and shielded his eyes with his arms just before a torch was thrust into the darkness. Not that it did him much good as rough hands grabbed him by his arms, heaved him to his feet and pulled him up the stone stairs and into the daylight. He blinked to clear his vision and thanked the goddess for her gift of healing. The day was overcast and chilly but by the distant smell of baking bread he guessed it must have been early morning. His stomach grumbled as he thought about food and he looked over to the east side of the courtyard where he knew the communal kitchens were located.
This particular courtyard was a place he knew well; kitchens to the east, barracks to the west and stables, kennels and store rooms to the north. He had just come from that direction so his guess that he had been held in some sort of root cellar was probably correct. The south side opened onto an area of packed earth where the guards trained and behind that was the old king’s sprawling hunting lodge.
Beyond was the forest where the king and the highborn of Tarbis used to hunt wild tuskers and forest runner. He wondered if the old king’s son kept up the tradition. His question was answered when a small party of horsemen approached from that direction and he watched them until one of the guards pushed him to his knees and rested his sword on his shoulder a finger’s length from his neck, daring him to rise again.
Prince Newn stopped in front of him flanked by his two body guards and stared down at him. “Well, merchant, have you remembered where you’ve hidden the rest of your goods yet?”
He sighed; the prince had certainly grown up in the four years since he had last seen him. Gone was the thin sallow boy to be replaced by a remarkably good looking young man with broad shoulders, strong hands and deep, dark brown eyes. As it was, the Prince who had ordered him to be beaten, his hope that the vicious boy would have grown into a good and just man seemed unlikely.
“Your Highness, I’ve already told you I’m a poor merchant and the gift I brought you from the Rale of Sandstrone is all I have. Please believe what I say, if there was more I would give it to you.”
“Why should I believe you, merchant? Sandstrone is rich in gold and gems and all you’ve brought me is a worthless bronze tree with silver leaves. You may be old and ragged but if you come from Tallison’s court you’ll have far more to give me than that. Now where have you hidden the rest of your goods?” The ragged prisoner shook his head and dejectedly looked down at the ground between his knees. “Chain him up and let’s see if the touch of the lash will loosen his tongue.”
He
looked up in shock; this wasn’t at all what he had planned. Alarmed at what was about to happen he went to protest but before he could say a word the Prince gave the command to gag him. Two guards pulled him to his feet whilst a third forced a thick piece of rope between his teeth and pulled the ends roughly behind his head. He retched as the guard knotted the ends tightly over the lump on his head and choked as another pulled his shirt from behind, dragging at his throat and ripping it from his back. They dragged him across the courtyard and despite his struggles they shackled his wrists to the chains on the barracks walls and pulled his arms tightly over his head until his toes barely touched the ground.
“Well, merchant, I will give you one more chance to tell me what I want to know. Where are the rest of your goods?”
He shook his head, trying to get his thoughts together to prevent what they were going to do him, but when the first lash cut into his back the pain and shock scattered what little focus he had managed to gather. The second cut alongside the first, the tip of the lash snaking over his shoulder and drawing blood on his cheek. He tried to scream but the gag held his tongue down and cut at the corners of his mouth. Once again he tried to gather his focus but the third lash caught him high on the shoulders, the tip cutting his neck as it was withdrawn. The fourth crossed the other three and he lost control of his bladder. He sagged into the chains and after that there was just pain and fire and then oblivion.