Battle for Elt: The Taking of the Wizard Bearer

by A. C. Hutchinson

  “There are hardly any guards on the walls these days. Their numbers have been dwindling steadily over the past few months.” Stetland stretched his neck to see the city wall over the jumble of rooftops. He could make out one solitary guard slowly making his way along the top of it on sentry duty. The boy followed Stetland's line of sight. “A few weeks ago there were always two guards, walking side by side, not one.” The boy continued to pull the brush across the horse's coat as he talked. “And a few months ago, they'd have passed other guards walking in the opposite direction. Now that one guard passes no one.”

  “What about elsewhere?”

  The boy shrugged. “Hard to tell, but sometimes there aren't any guards on the gates at all. But I'm just a boy, what do I know.”

  Stetland placed his hand on the boy's shoulder. “It's nothing for you to worry about, but keep this to yourself. People can get frightened easily and we don't want that.”

  The boy stopped brushing the horse. “Not many come back, either.”

  “Come back?”

  “Aye. They go out to war, but not many return. In fact, less and less go out in the first place. I've got an older brother who's seventeen. Sir John Bretel came calling two weeks ago, signed him up.”

  “At seventeen?”

  “Aye.”

  “You can't be a soldier until you're eighteen. That's always been the way in Kingstown.”

  The boy shrugged his shoulders. “That's what happened.”

  Before Stetland could question the boy further, Sir John appeared in the doorway to the stable dressed smartly in his green king's guard tunic. Behind him were two young soldiers, both clutching wooden shields.

  “Stetland,” Sir John said. “I would like you to meet Gabel Giles and Marcus Delorous. They'll be accompanying us.”

  Stetland stepped closer to Sir John. Keeping his voice low, he said: “I told King Bahlinger to ask you to pick two of your best men. These two are but boys.”

  The two young men looked barely old enough to shave.

  “They're eighteen, Stetland. Albeit only just.”

  Stetland stared at Sir John, waiting for an explanation.

  Sir John sighed. “Look, they need the experience. And I'm low on good men too. How about you give them a chance?”

  It was Stetland's turn to sigh. “All right, but I'll have to keep a close eye on them. We can't afford to mess this one up.”

  “I'll keep my eye on them too.”

  Behind the two young soldiers, someone was making their way across the courtyard, waving both hands in the air.

  “Is that Gladden?” Stetland said, squinting.

  Sir John sighed. “I had no intentions of taking the wizard with us.”

  A wizard could come in handy.

  Gladden arrived, panting. He looked old for his age, as all wizards did. His shoulder-length hair, previously fair, was streaked with silver and the whiskers about his face were peppered with grey. His twin sister, the wizard bearer they were to rescue, would look younger, Stetland knew. The advantage of being a bearer yet to conceive. Stetland doubted that Gladden would become as powerful as Fabian; the line of wizards was weakening with every generation.

  “We should get moving,” Stetland said. “We're wasting precious time.”

  The stable boy saddled the horses and as the sun crept to its early morning perch in the vivid blue sky, they rode through the city gate and into the lands beyond.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Is this all you've done?” said the hulk of a man, hands on hips. “You've been out here all morning.” He towered over the boy, blocking the winter sunshine.

  Christian Santiago had been turning soil all morning. His muscles complained with a dull ache and his hands were raw with burst blisters, the skin underneath red and tender.

  The boy looked up at the man and said: “It's hard work, sir.” And I'm only eleven. “There was a frost last night, the earth is hard, and the chain is not long enough for me to reach fresh earth.” Christian lifted his left foot and jangled the heavy chain, which was attached to a clasp around his ankle. The man's deep-set eyes followed the snake of metal to its hoop set into a square of stone just a few paces away. “Besides, why am I doing this, sir? It's winter. There are no crops to sow.”

  The man was called Tarquin Gains. He towered over the boy and said: “I'll give you hard.” He held his hand high, suggesting to Christian that he was about to receive a backhand from his keeper. Christian flinched and closed his eyes, waiting for the sting of pain to erupt on his chilblained cheek. But when nothing happened the boy slowly unfurled his face and opened his eyes. Tarquin was looking in the opposite direction, to the dirt track that passed the farmhouse where they lived, as a horse – a shabby looking, unkempt mule – pulling a wain, rumbled by. In the wagoner's seat sat a man with a makeshift metal helm. Sitting in the wain were four men, each wearing tattered, drab-coloured clothes. Three of them also wore helms, each mismatched in design and shape to the other. Lying between them in what looked like a white nightdress was a young girl with dark flowing hair.

  “Volk's men . . .” Christian said with a mixture of awe and dread.

  Tarquin reeled back around. As he turned, the stubble-covered fat on his neck rippled like the waves on a stormy sea. Christian thought the whiskers on Tarquin's chin and cheeks looked as sharp as needles.

  “We're all Volk's sympathizers here, boy,” Tarquin yelled. He always shouted, never talked. “The king don't care about us no more. Now get back to work before I stick that shovel up your scrawny little arse.”

  Tarquin turned, pausing to watch the wain disappear over the brow of the hill. He stood there until the sound of the horse's footfalls diminished and then began to trudge across the field towards the house. Christian jammed the shovel back into the hard earth, standing on the shoulder of the blade with his mismatched boots in an attempt to make it go deeper. But the ground was stubborn and the spade's cutting edge failed to penetrate the frozen earth beneath.

  Christian felt exhausted. The temptation to collapse and sleep forever was growing greater by the second. As these thoughts smothered his remaining strength, he heard the voice of Patricia Gains calling from the house. Christian looked past Tarquin and saw the slender figure of the kindly woman standing by the side of the cottage. A blue apron with white spots, the one Christian always thought looked like falling snow, was tied around her waist. Christian couldn't remember a time when he'd seen her without it. She reminded him much of his own mother, but those memories from six months past were too painful to revisit.

  Tarquin was most definitely nothing like Christian's father. From this distance Christian thought his keeper looked like a toy he'd had as child. A toy his mother had made for him called William Wobble. It had been egg shaped, he remembered, dressed in clothes, with a crudely drawn face above its knitted scarf. The toy was weighted at the base with sand. Christian had been fascinated by it, because if he attempted to push William Wobble over, it righted itself. At the memory, he allowed himself a rare smile.

  Patricia was calling them in for dinner.

  “Seems like you've earned yourself a short reprieve,” Tarquin said striding back towards the boy. “Don't want you fainting or nothing.” His shadow shielded Christian from the little warmth the sun offered.

  Christian's stomach rumbled at the thought of food.

  Tarquin rummaged in his pocket and produced a small key. He made to kneel, but then straightened again, taking the shovel from the boy's hands. “Don't want you hitting me over the head with this while I'm down there unlocking your clasp.” Tarquin threw the shovel to one side and then crouched.

  I haven't the strength to hit you, even if I dared.

  As the clasp came free, Christian looked up at the deep blue sky and quietly thanked the gods. The piece of sharp metal had been digging into the soft skin around his ankle all morning. It was a relief to be rid of it.

  “Come on,” Tarquin yelled. Tarquin took him by the wrist and pulled
him across the field. Christian stumbled, struggling to keep up. His boots, two sizes too large, made walking across the mud difficult. “Keep up, or I'll beat your backside with that shovel back there.”

  “I'm trying, sir,” Christian offered. He knew his voice sounded weak and feeble. To hear himself sound like that filled him with shame.

  I bet the Dark Rider is never weak, he thought. I bet the Dark Rider would snap Mr Gains' arm off and then beat him with it.

  “Come on!” Tarquin yelled, yanking the boy harder as if he were a disobedient dog on a leash. Christian lost his footing and went sprawling. Tarquin didn't halt, only continued to stride, dragging the boy behind him by his wrist. Christian scrambled to gain a foothold, to right himself again before the brute pulled his arm right out of its socket or twisted it to deformity. Christian knew that even with a lame arm he would be made to work. There wouldn't be any sympathy offered, just beatings if he failed to perform his chores.

  Just as he thought his arm might snap at the elbow, he managed to find his footing. The brute didn't even look back.

  When they arrived at the house, a mouth-watering smell drifted from the open door. Soup, he thought. Mrs Gains has made soup. He liked Mrs Gains's soup. He knew that it would be leek, but he let himself be excited by the idea that she might have added a few cubes of potato too. Once she had made such a meal, he remembered. It had filled his stomach to a satisfying swell that made the afternoon work less arduous.

  On reaching the door, Tarquin pulled Christian into the house as if they were a couple performing a well-rehearsed dance. But the loving embrace in its finale was sadly missing as Tarquin let go of Christian's wrist sending him lurching unsteadily into the room. He grabbed the back of a wooden chair and only just managed to keep his feet.

  The cottage was just a single room, with a wooden staircase leading to two further rooms in the loft space.

  Tarquin slammed the door shut and walked to the fireplace where he bent and rubbed his hands, warming them against the flames. Christian fought the wicked temptation to plant his boot in Tarquin's oversized backside. He pictured his keeper running around the room holding his burnt, peeling face. But Christian knew that life-threatening beatings would follow such a show of rebellion.

  “Sit down, child,” Patricia Gains whispered, gently. Tarquin, still hunched by the fire, looked around and scowled. It was obvious to Christian that his keeper didn't like the kindly way in which his wife had spoken.

  As inconspicuous as possible, Christian took his place at the table. He wouldn't get his food yet, he knew. Tarquin would have to be fed first, otherwise Patricia would feel his wrath. Christian looked down at the table, avoiding eye contact with them both. It was better that way, he'd learned. His backside still bore the scars from the last time he caught Tarquin's eye.

  Eventually, Tarquin came to the table. He sat at the head, like the king he probably thought he was. Patricia placed a bowl of steaming soup on the table in front of her husband. Her hands were shaking, Christian saw. He willed her not to spill it for he knew they'd both get a beating for such carelessness.

  Using a large wooden spoon, Tarquin scooped soup and then slurped on it like a farmyard animal.

  Christian's stomach rumbled, but he could do nothing but stare at the table and wait patiently. He knew every knot, every blemish, every chip on that wooden top. Every meal time he would look down on it, longing for a sufficient meal, praying that violence wouldn't end it prematurely.

  When Patricia slid a bowl of soup under Christian's nose – just leak, no potato – he resisted the temptation to tuck into it eagerly. Tarquin liked etiquette, even though he showed none of it himself. Christian picked up his spoon. The soup smells so good. His stomach rumbled again. In his peripheral vision he saw Patricia take the seat opposite him at the table. Taking this as his cue, he skimmed his spoon over the soup, getting just a little in its cradle and then began to sip it.

  All was good, until Tarquin finished his soup. “I want more,” he said. “It didn't fill me. A meal for a pauper, that was.”

  Christian heard Patricia’s spoon clink against the side of her bowl several times, like chattering teeth. He knew what her answer was going be.

  “But I don't have anymore, Tarquin,” she said, with a quiver. “The harvest was poor this year, you know that. It was all I could make. You promised you'd provide me with meat. My cupboards are bare.”

  Christian looked down at his soup. Dread rippled from his testicles to the pit of his stomach.

  “I want more,” Mr Gains persisted.

  “Here, have mine,” Patricia said.

  Christian heard Patricia slide the bowl across the table. He dare not look, but he could tell what was happening by sound alone. When he heard the clatter of a soup bowl hitting the floor, he knew Tarquin’s short temper had reached its end. The bowl under his own nose disappeared too as the table was hoisted in the air. Christian pushed back his chair, avoiding a smack on the underside of his chin from the rising table. Then, he dared a look. He had to, he knew. Now it's all about survival. Tarquin Gains was standing. The table was at the other side of the room, still righted. Patricia remained seated, a whimper escaped her mouth. Tarquin lashed out, the back of his hand making contact with his wife's cheek, hitting her with enough force to topple her to the floor. Tarquin bent and picked up the wooden spoon he'd used to eat with and began to beat Patricia with it. She curled herself into a ball, like a frightened hedgehog. Tarquin beat her again and again. Sometimes the sound was a slap as the spoon hit her forearm, other times it was a hollow clunk as it hit her head.

  Christian remained seated, scared to move. Urine trickled down the inside of his leg and dripped with a tap, tap, tap onto the floor. It was a sensation he was used to.

  The door behind him, the one that led out into the field, was unlocked and unguarded, he knew, but he couldn't make his legs move. He also knew that even if he did manage to put his legs in motion, the speed of his run would be crippled by fear. It's why I've never escaped, he thought.

  Patricia’s cries had ceased. Perhaps he's knocked her out. It will be better for her that way, she won't feel the pain or the humiliation of what will follow.

  As Christian's bladder ran dry, Tarquin turned his attention to the boy, his face contorted like a demon. His eyes are full of hate. Christian remained seated as the hulk of a man bore down on him, spoon in hand.

  Christian looked from spoon to man and back again, shaking his head in a pleading manner.

  Tarquin Gains chuckled and threw the spoon into the corner. But Christian knew, even then, that he hadn't been spared. Tarquin’s mouth spread into an evil grin as he pulled his belt free from the loops in his trousers. He reached out and grabbed a fistful of the boy's hair. Christian put his hands around Tarquin's wrists as the brute lifted him from the chair. The roots of his hair screamed in unison. When Tarquin let go, Christian fell to the floor in a heap. But before he could stand, the belt lashed down on his back. Tarquin Gains hit him with the buckle end, again and again. The thin shirt covering Christian's back tore, the skin beneath tearing too. Pain throbbed with every pump of his increased heartbeat. On two occasions, the buckle missed his back and hit his head. He felt a warm trickle of blood drip into his ear and well in the hole there, muffling his hearing. Eventually, Tarquin stopped with the lashing.

  Christian lay still. He knew from experience that moving made the pain worse. With his cheek pressed against the cold stone floor, he watched Tarquin's legs walk away, back to the motionless body of Patricia Gains.

  Christian knew what would come next.

  Despite the discomfort it caused, Christian turned his head away. He didn't want to watch, although he found that he could do nothing about the noise. To make matters worse, the stone floor seemed to channel the sound directly into his ear. He heard Patricia weep throughout. Tarquin would be naked from the waist down, Christian knew, and Patricia’s skirt would be hitched up over her bottom.

  After a t
ime, he fell asleep, his body needing to recover. His dreams were vivid and filled with a dark figure atop a horse, its cloak flapping in the wind.

  CHAPTER 3

  As the sun reached towards noon, a jewel in the icy blue sky, Cassandra Delamare shivered in the back of the wain. Jolting this way and that as its solid wooden wheels negotiated the stony ground on the ascent towards Drewton Hills, she tried to hug herself against the cold. This was made difficult because her wrists had been chained together. She pulled up her legs, like a babe in the womb, and felt the constricting chains around her ankles. She'd been taken during the night in nothing but her nightdress – a thin, flimsy slip of white cotton that did nothing to protect her from winter's evil chill. One of the four men in the wain with her, a man with a dark, thinly cropped beard, had given her his sheepskin coat. She tried her best to pull it up under her chin, but with her wrists chained, performing anything meticulous was frustrating and difficult.

  Since leaving Kingstown, the men in the wain had spoken very little. She'd asked questions, of course, but they had been quick to tell her to be quiet. When she'd persisted with her pleas to be set free, threats of violence followed. This had silenced her. She wasn't used to being talked to in such a way. Nor was she used to hearing the type of coarse words they used.

  As they journeyed east, the men's mouths continued to pay her little attention, but their eyes were less shy. She was alarmed to witness one of them, a man with a crooked, misshapen nose, sweep his eyes across her body, lingering for too long on the curves of her breasts. Fortunately for her, the sheepskin coat she had been given since offered protection from his probing gaze. She knew the man would have a 'V' tattooed on the underside of his forearm – the mark of Volk – as would they all.

  She was uncomfortable too. The hay was coarse and itched the exposed skin on the nape of her neck. Adjusting her position was difficult, she found, with her wrists and ankles chained as they were.