by Joseph Lallo
She took the arm. “Thank you.”
* * *
Part II
10 ~ Castle Black
Set in a lush valley on an island called Black, a pristine white castle stands strong and unrivalled. Built with magic of the hardest stone, and clad in limestone spelled to remain white through the centuries, the castle dominates the valley in which it stands sentinel. More, Castle Black controls the entire island and most of the mainland as well. The island’s prosperous villages are filled with happy people, and its farms benefit from weather that is never harsh. The crops never fail. The island is as close to a paradise as the sorcerers can make using ancient spells of fertility and weather working. Castle Black is the home and seat of Lord Mortain, Voice of the God, First Lord Sorcerer, and undisputed ruler of the Protectorate.
Mortain studied his mirror intently, memorising everything he heard for later recall. He had a prodigious memory; all sorcerers did. It was a prerequisite for competence in the craft, and he was a very competent mage—a powerful and ruthless one. The image in the mirror was of a middle-aged man wearing the black robes of his calling as he spoke with another sorcerer. The fact he could scry Godwinson at all meant he was unlikely to hear anything of real import. A ward to prevent scrying was easy to erect, which meant his heir would say nothing of consequence. He still hoped for a slip that might lead him to something he could use.
Suddenly the mirror clouded.
He cursed as his prediction came to pass and Godwinson raised a ward. He let his spell dissolve and the mirror’s surface returned to normal. “He’s up to something,” he muttered to himself. “I can feel it.”
His body servant, Marcail, came forward and proffered a silver tray with a glass of ice water on it. He took the glass and drank away his thirst. He dehydrated whenever he scried for extended periods of time. Marcail always kept cool water on hand for those times. He nodded his thanks and replaced the glass on the tray. Marcail moved back to his place without uttering a sound.
Mortain frowned. Godwinson was his heir by virtue of his strength in magic, and would obviously be planning to take over someday. He had, Godwinson was, and Godwinson’s own heir would in his time. That was the way of things—the path to power in the Protectorate and Castle Black both. It was a little known fact outside of the castle that every Godwinson for the past hundred years at least had assassinated his predecessor. It was almost a tradition now, but it was one he was determined not to fall afoul of himself. He would break the cycle or die trying. He chuckled at the thought, but then he frowned as a thought occurred to him.
“Hmmm, Godwinson’s boy. What’s his name?” he said to Marcail, but he didn’t answer of course. One boy sorcerer was the same as another to him. Every one of them was a tool made to fit his hand.
Wotan, that was it.
“Should I use Wotan for this, or another?” Mortain wondered aloud, but then he shook his head. “Too risky. Beltran will have to do it.”
He grasped his magic and spoke mind to mind. *My study, now*
*Yes, my lord.*
While he waited for the man to make his way up from the lower levels of the castle, he used the time to scry Fifth Legion where it lay siege to Athione. The huge mirror on his study wall cleared to reveal General Navarien with his hands clasped together behind his back watching the bombardment of Athione’s ward. Navarien seemed too good to be true sometimes, and strictly speaking he was. The man could be too pushy when trying to get what he wanted, and he had no care for the political niceties of his position. His requests were all too often demands. He didn’t like sorcerers.
Mortain snorted in amusement. “I don’t even like sorcerers. Who does?”
Marcail remained silent his eyes glittering.
Navarien’s peers had urged his execution for treason on any number of occasions, but he was unwilling to lose such a resource to mere backbiting. The general had stepped heavily on more than a few toes in his rapid rise to command. It would take more than a few disgruntled underlings to make him order Navarien’s execution. Much more.
Clunk! The knock on the door heralded Beltran’s arrival.
He quickly dropped his spell and allowed the mirror to clear before nodding to Marcail. A moment later Beltran stood before him.
“You summoned me, my lord sorcerer?” Beltran enquired quietly.
Beltran was one of his guardians—one of a handpicked group of sorcerers that he used to keep the others under control, and for special jobs like this one. He wasn’t close to his strength in magic, or Godwinson’s either—such a threat close to him would have required elimination. No, Beltran was no threat to his position, and was very useful. The man was a pure killer, which was the first, the last, and the only thing that came to mind when his name came up. Beltran was his favourite assassin.
“I have a task for you,” Mortain said as he took his place behind his desk. “Godwinson is recruiting a cadre of mages for his bodyguard. There’s nothing wrong with that—I did the same in his position, but I want you to join them. You will obey him as you would me, but with one exception.”
“Exception my lord?”
“Follow his orders but do nothing that will risk my position or my life without first reporting for instructions. Is that clear?”
“Yes, my lord sorcerer. I should obey him in all things except your death or removal.”
“Very good.”
“Will there be anything else, my lord?”
“You’ll find him in Athinia. Journey there immediately and join his guard. Await orders.”
“I understand,” Beltran said and bowed deeply before leaving.
Marcail poured a deep burgundy coloured wine and placed it on his desk within easy reach of his hand. He drank and nodded his thanks. He was always polite to Marcail. It was compensation for having the man’s tongue removed fifteen years earlier. He’d thought at the time to use magic to silence him, but had decided against it. With so many sorcerers coming and going there’d been a remote chance of someone reversing the spell, but no one could make a tongue re-grow.
* * *
11 ~ Traitor
Three men take their ease in a sumptuously appointed room in the fortress called Malcor. Ambassador Abarsis, wearing the black robes proclaiming him a sorcerer, sits at a remove from the others. There is a striking resemblance between the other two men, not owing to their clothing. The older man is Lord Athlone, and the younger, his only son Jihan.
Both are handsome men. Not tall as Japurans invariably are, nor are they wiry like a Camorin, but both have a swordsman’s physique and unconsciously bear themselves with the inherited arrogance of their forbears. Jihan wears his hair long, but plaited like a Camorin warrior. An affectation he learned from one of his tutors who came from the north. Athlone wears his hair cut short for comfort while wearing a helm. Both men are blond. Jihan’s eyes are chips of diamond, ice blue and cold—Athlone’s the same. Both father and son wear rich silk shirts and tight leather trousers.
Jihan watched his father carefully as he always did. He had learned long ago not to attract the man’s attention. He feared and hated him more than any other thing, and with good reason. Athlone could be unbelievably vicious if crossed, as his mother had found to her cost. She had made just one error in her plan to escape, but one was all it took. She had assumed her maid was trustworthy. She hadn’t been. Athlone was waiting and had beaten her within an inch of her life.
Jihan tried to hide from the memory of his lovely mother’s body, lying at the base of the south tower, her face battered and bruised. She had found her escape in death. It had been a terrible shock to him back then—learning that his father was evil, but he never let himself forget it. His mother’s beauty was lost forever, but thank the God Athlone had never taken another consort. He didn’t know what he would have done if his father had ever abused another women, but one or both of them would probably have died finding out. Luckily, his father spent all of his energy sc
heming against the other lords these days, and had no time for women. He used much of it thinking up ways to spite Keverin of Athione especially. Although Keverin didn’t deserve his father’s hatred, Jihan was just as happy that this was so. Anything that distracted his father from him had his vote.
He didn’t blame his mother for leaving him. He wished that she’d killed Athlone instead of herself, but he understood. He flicked a glance at his father and away. If only... what? If only he had the courage to do it himself! No, he couldn’t blame her for not doing something he didn’t have the nerve to attempt.
Athlone sipped his wine. “And what does Lord Mortain want from me this time?”
“Nothing too onerous,” Abarsis said, and smiled. “He wants your forces to remain neutral during the coming conflict. He was most pleased with your decision not to aid Keverin when he asked.”
“I didn’t refuse my aid for Mortain’s sake,” Athlone said coldly. “My father and his were enemies, which makes him my enemy. I do not aid enemies of Malcor.”
Jihan shifted in his seat. No, he didn’t aid his enemies, but he did aid enemies of the kingdom. Mortain and the Protectorate were definitely that. The feud between Athione and Malcor had started many years ago when his grandfather had tried to seize lands belonging to Keverin’s uncle, who of course was unable to defend them against the might of Malcor. Keverin’s father went to the aid of his father-in-law, Lord Padrig, with his son and two thousand Athione guardsmen. The result left his grandfather and his heir dead, and Athlone inheriting Malcor. Athlone’s first act as lord of Malcor was to pay a huge sum in gold as compensation for the raids upon Padrig’s lands. His second was to swear eternal enmity on Keverin’s family. Since then, he’d continued the feud in petty ways, but refusing aid in time of war wasn’t one of them.
“I understand, my lord,” Abarsis said and offered a condescending smile. “We know you have... how should I put this? We know you have been encouraging the Chancellor in some of his less wise policies. Lord Mortain, may he live forever, wishes to congratulate you on your foresight, and offers rulership of Deva as a province of the Protectorate.”
Treason and utter utter madness! Jihan forced his face not to reveal his shock. He needed to speak up against this evil, but he knew it would do no good. He feared to do the only thing he could think of that would, but he wasn’t ready to challenge his father for lordship of Malcor. Coward! When will you be ready? He hunched his shoulders raging at himself, but he couldn’t make himself speak up.
Athlone smiled. “It’s a little premature for dividing the spoils don’t you think? You’ve yet to take the fortress.”
“A mere formality. Keverin’s amateurs cannot possibly stand against an entire legion of our best men. Especially not with fifty sorcerers in attendance. Even if they could, fifty is only tithe of what we could devote to the task.”
“Very true. Well then, let’s discuss the details.”
Jihan listened as Athlone sold the kingdom and Malcor’s honour to the black-hearted sorcerers, and silently cursed his own cowardice.
* * *
12 ~ The Archer
The next morning, Jihan mounted Jezy and galloped out of the fortress as if a demon pursued him. So fast were they, he didn’t hear the gates boom shut behind them. He was free—for a morning at least. He wished it could be longer but it was Tenday again. He didn’t dare defy his father and not return for the judgement’s proceedings.
“Coward,” he growled to himself. Jezy’s ears swivelled to listen. “Not you my heart.”
They slowed to a canter and then to a walk. He slapped Jezy on her neck once then twice more as the steam of her breath rose around him in the cold morning air. Dew was heavy this morning and the air had a crispness that delighted him. Mist filled the hollows and spilled onto the plain making tiny eddies around Jezy’s legs as she walked. He was snug and warm within his padded coat and armour; his cloak added to his feeling of wellbeing. He wore no helm, much preferring to go bare headed whether riding or fighting. Obscuring one’s vision seemed a foolhardy way to go through life.
He scowled. His vision was perfect where his father was concerned. It was a dark day when uncle Arik, then lord Malcor, had challenged Keverin’s father. If not for that foolishness, Athlone would never have become lord of Malcor and perhaps things would have been different. Different, but would they have been better? Sometimes he thought so. The lordship didn’t appeal to him, not if it meant turning into the image of his father. If Arik had survived to sire children, a brother’s only son would have been free to roam. He would give anything to go back and make things right. Who knows, perhaps Athlone wouldn’t have become the way he is. His mother might be alive today and happy. His father hadn’t always been evil. Bitterness and power had corrupted him, ruling Malcor had turned him into this… this traitor!
The stars were fading toward dawn, and he quickened his pace a little to arrive in time.
His sporadic trips out of the fortress had become a daily routine since the sorcerer’s arrival. Every morning before dawn he was up and riding out the north gate. So predictable had he become in this one thing, that the guards would have the gates open in anticipation of his leaving. He didn’t want to be predictable, and he certainly didn’t like the guards lowering the fortress’ defence on his behalf, but he didn’t chastise them. He wanted out as fast as possible. Besides, he never spoke to his father’s cronies unless he absolutely had to. Jezy was short on conversation, but he preferred her silence to anything they might have to say to him.
“Don’t I my heart?”
Jezy snorted and nodded her head as if in agreement and he chuckled. If he’d been born with the gift for magic, he would have devised a way to make her talk. That would really be something special. The stories said that dragons could talk, but as far as he knew they existed only in The Histories now, lost with so much else in the past and the kingdom’s creation.
They reached his favourite spot and he dismounted. He removed his cloak and laid it over the saddle. It wouldn’t be long now. He stood at Jezy’s head in the clearing and watched the stars of the constellation called The Hunter fade away.
Then it happened.
Light lanced his eyes as the sun cleared the horizon in a blaze of glory. He shaded them to watch the splendour that the God made happen each day. The few clouds turned fiery red then slowly faded to gold as light burst through the trees like spears. The mist fled, burning away as the temperature rose. It was only spring, but the temperatures were closer to those he would normally associate with the height of summer.
The farms would be hit by drought this year. Warnings would go out to be extra careful with untended fires—thatch needed little help in burning. Most of the houses in Malcor Town had tiled roofs, but the poorer villages and towns used traditional thatch roofs. Farmers were intimately aware of the seasons and would already know this year was going to be uncommonly hot. They would take precautions as their fathers had before them and their fathers before them, all the way back to a time when such precautions had been unnecessary. The weather had been held in the hands of mighty mages back then, something no longer seen anywhere except over the Black Isle itself.
He scowled at the reminder of how powerful the sorcerers still were. The year was 1181 AF. More than eleven hundred years after the Founding of the Black Isle, sorcerers did little more than kill with their magic. In Deva, great mages had built The Four with their power, but now those men were no more—except for a handful huddling in Athione waiting to die.
He turned his grim thoughts away from things he couldn’t change and set about his day. He unsaddled Jezy and turned her loose to graze. She wouldn’t wander far from him. With bow in hand and quiver hanging from his shoulder, he walked to a huge oak tree with white circles drawn on it. The outer ring was still clear, but the inner circle was badly worn away from his earlier practise. He repaired the target with a piece of chalk he’d left in the nook of the tree. Satisfied,
he carefully paced fifty yards from the trees and pushed an arrow into the soil to mark the place. He did the same for one and two hundred yards.
He paused then and breathed deeply, smiling to hear the birds singing to greet a new day. The mist was all but gone and the morn truly begun. He knocked an arrow to his string and aimed at the centre of his target. From fifty yards out it looked roughly the size of his hand outstretched. He sighted carefully and held his breath. The day was utterly still. Not a breath of wind to ruin his shot. The birdsong faded from his awareness as he concentrated. He held his bow at full extension waiting for the right moment—the moment his instructors had taught him would always come.
“How will I know?” he had asked when first learning the bow.
“It’s different for everyone, m’lord. You’ll just know,” Arvid said.
Jihan waited and felt the certainty come. He loosed.
Thock!
The arrow drove home dead centre of the target, but he took no satisfaction from it, he was already reaching for another arrow. He sighted and waited as before. A tiny breath of wind tugged at his hair playfully flicking it into one eye. He ignored it and loosed.
Thock!
The arrow drove home beside its brother so close that the heads were touching. Twice more he repeated the feat before reclaiming them. He carefully examined each shaft and discarded one of the four as damaged. Dropping the arrowhead next to his saddle, he walked to his second position. At one hundred yards, the centre of the target was hard to see. The light was not favourable to this shot, but that was one of the reasons he preferred this time of day. He couldn’t be certain of favourable conditions in battle. Making do with what he had to work with was a good way to learn and improve.
He sighted upon the centre of the outer ring first, and then adjusted minutely for the range. The centre was no bigger than his clenched fist now, but released the arrow with confidence. He was always confident. If he hadn’t been, he wouldn’t have released the shaft.