Torbrek...and the Dragon Variation (The Torbrek Trilogy)

by Lexi Revellian

  Kerris went to each castle gate in turn. The gatekeeper at the east gate remembered Tor leaving on horseback to go hunting in the forest. Kerris immediately ordered a search party; in the time available she could not have gone far, and if she had been thrown by her horse, a systematic quartering of the area should find her. He thought this the most likely explanation of what had happened. But if she had been thrown and injured, it disturbed him that her horse had not returned alone as one would expect.

  His men reported back having found nothing. No Tor, no horse, not anything to show she had been there at all. Worried, Kerris went to tell Barlanik. They were discussing what to do next, when there was a knock on the door and Drewitt came in, with a respectable but shabby woman and a boy.

  “This woman is a forester’s widow, and this is her son. She says he saw Tor.” He turned to the woman. “Tell them what he saw.”

  She bobbed a curtsey to Barlanik. “Some men set on one of your soldiers in the forest, sir.”

  Barlanik said to the boy, whose eyes were busy taking in everything in the room, “What happened?”

  His mother answered for him. “There was a fight then they tied him up.”

  “I’d like to hear it from him, as he was there,” Barlanik said. “What’s your name?”

  “Pom, sir.”

  “What were you doing in the forest, Pom?”

  The boy looked at his mother. She said, “He didn’t mean no harm, sir. He didn’t know what was going to happen. It’s not his fault.”

  “Pom, just tell me the truth. It’s important. What did you see?”

  “Six men. One of them, the leader, said to sham dead when one of your soldiers came by. Not any soldier, just this one they’d been watching for.”

  Pom’s mother said quickly, “They didn’t tell him they were going to grab him. He’s only a boy, he didn’t think.”

  “Yes, yes – then what?”

  Pom’s eyes widened. “He killed one of them. There was a big fight. Then a chase when he got away, then another fight when they caught him. It went on for ages. Then they tied his hands and put something black over his head.”

  Barlanik and Kerris looked at each other in dismay. “Did they kill him?”

  “No,” said the boy, “they took him away. They had horses.”

  Barlanik got Pom to describe the men, and every detail of the fight, which he did precisely. He was obviously sharp-witted and observant. At the end, when it seemed there was no more to be got out of him, Barlanik sighed. “What made you do it, Pom?”

  Pom looked at his feet. “They said they’d give me a gold coin. And they did.”

  “He knows we’re poor,” his mother said, flushing. “He couldn’t bring himself to turn it down. He shouldn’t have done it, sir, but he’s only twelve. Afterwards he was sorry, and told me. He’s a good lad.”

  “It’s Skardroft; it has to be,” said Barlanik, “though why did they keep Tor alive? Who have we got in Tarragon?”

  “There’s that silk merchant who keeps his eyes open for us, sends us odd bits of information. I’ll get a message to him to look out for Tor, send him a description. He can ask around discreetly. He’s not got access to the palace, though.”

  “ If Tor’s in the dungeons, we won’t find out till we get there – no one knows who’s in there. People don’t come out again. There’s nothing we can do until we know where Tor is.” Barlanik looked bleak. “What was Tor thinking of, hunting in the forest alone in the first place?”

  Neither of them wanted to mention, let alone discuss, the possibility that Tor might have been kept alive in order to be tortured for information. Her absence cast a shadow over them.

  Barlanik went himself to tell Xantilor what was happening.

  CHAPTER 10

  Dinner with King Skardroft

  As the big doors closed behind her on Skardroft, Tor once more traversed the corridors between two guards, on the way to rooms prepared for her in the Palace. At least this time she could see where she was going. She glanced up at their faces, at the good-looking blond guard and his companion who seemed plain beside him, thinking she could take them both on and win (but then what? The palace seethed with guards, there were troops in the citadel; beyond that the town was patrolled and the gates guarded). The blond guard met her look with a sidelong smile, guessing her thought, and isolated as she was she warmed to him and smiled back.

  Her rooms were high in a tower. They were equal to Skardroft’s for luxury, with wall hangings, eastern carpets over the tables and silver candelabra. A fine chess set of ivory and ebony, its board inlaid with gold, stood on a table; there were illustrated books and, in case she was musical, a lute leaned against a wall. A waiting servant asked what she would like to eat, bowed and left.

  Tor walked through to the spacious bedroom. There was a canopied bed with a wolf-skin cover turned back at the foot, sheepskins on the floor and a mirror with a carved and gilded frame. A bathtub filled with hot water was ready for her, in its own little white tent to keep off the draughts, with thick linen towels beside it.

  All the windows were barred, and she heard the guards bolt the door from the outside as the servant departed.

  Tor sat on the bed, her head in her hands. She thought of her own bare room in the turret at the Dragon Tower, so different from these, and longed to be there. What, she thought with a homesick pang, would Xantilor be doing now? They must have missed her ages ago at the Castle. What would they think had happened to her?

  And Skardroft…he was a murderous, callous tyrant. Before he knew who she was, he’d had Cramble burnt in an attempt to destroy her, and it was the merest chance she had escaped. Tor did not make the mistake of underestimating his ruthlessness, just because his manner to her had been friendly. After all, had she not been his blood relative, she would be dead, her dagger with the others on the wall. And now he hoped to win her round, a hopeless endeavour…surprised, she identified and squashed a tiny feeling of pity for him.

  Tor shook herself and went over to the bath. Its steam smelled of sweet herbs, and rose petals floated invitingly. Her bruises were stiffening; she ached all over after the fight, and the hot water would help. It would be hours before dinner. She looked forward to the evening without enthusiasm.

  Soaking agreeably, Tor considered her options. Escape was of course her priority. Meanwhile, she had a choice. She could spend however long she was going to be here tiptoeing round Skardroft, trying not to upset or annoy him because he had power of life and death over her. Alternatively, she could be herself and take the consequences. As soon as she had worked this out, she knew how she would choose to behave. She would not censor herself for him; she refused to become an amenable, eager-to-please version of herself.

  If he did not like it, tough; he was the one who wanted her to be here.

  The same blond guard and his colleague came to collect her when it was time. As the guard knocked on Skardroft’s imposing door, he glanced at her and caught her taking a deep lungful of air as she summoned her courage. He smiled and said under his breath, “Enjoy your dinner, won’t you?”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Tor entered the room, and saw Skardroft standing, the focus of attention among a group of five or six men. There was a murmur of laughter and appreciation; the King had told a joke. He caught sight of Tor and came to greet her and bring her into the circle. “This is my newfound grandson, Torbrek.”

  The courtiers shook her hand in turn, each saying something pleasant. They seemed old to her, the youngest being over forty, and gave the impression of wariness around the King, as though they were being careful not to say anything injudicious. It did not make for a relaxing atmosphere. They watched him, their faces changing with his, listening attentively, ready to agree with anything he said. Sycophants; exactly what you’d expect a tyrant to have instead of friends.

  When the King was ready, they went through to dinner, in a dark oak-panelled room. The table glittered with gold and silver. Besides t
he heavy cutlery there were elaborate candlesticks, goblets, a magnificent salt decorated with dragons, and hothouse flowers in golden vases.

  Skardroft seated Tor next to him on his right. For several minutes there was a hush, while the servants helped them to food. Then the man on her other side, whose name she had not caught, turned politely to her. Small eyes weighed her up, while his fleshy, heavy-jowled face went through the motions of a smile. His plump body was more richly attired than the King’s. “Have you visited Tarragon before, Torbrek?”

  Tor answered in her clear, rather deep voice, audible to everyone round the table, “No. It’s an unexpected trip…I was planning on coming later this year.” She looked at Skardroft. “With my friends.”

  “And where is home when you’re not staying with your grandfather?”

  “It used to be a sleepy little village called Cramble. Unfortunately my grandfather had it burnt to the ground a month or two ago. He does that. Bad habit of his.” Anger rose up in Tor, making her feel light and dangerous. She took a sip of wine. To a toast on the battlements of Tarragon…

  The guest seemed in no hurry to speak again. He made a great business of helping himself to bread and butter. Skardroft, Tor was surprised to see, did not appear to be put out as she had expected and intended; rather he seemed privately amused at the man’s discomfiture, and interested to see what his response would be. Nobody else said anything. The silence lengthened. When at last the guest could not put off replying any longer, he swallowed, cleared his throat and said, “And so what have you been doing with yourself lately?”

  “I joined King Urquin’s army. The cavalry. I’ve been there ever since, until I was kidnapped and brought here today. If you want to know what I’m doing next, you’ll have to ask Skardroft.”

  A stunned silence. Covert glances were directed at the King, who maintained an impervious calm. Tor had a feeling he was enjoying himself. After that, the guests treated Tor with extreme caution, avoiding speaking to her as far as possible without being rude, and most of her exchanges were with her grandfather. Though she spoke her mind freely, Tor had the sense not to harangue him, and he seemed to relish their conversation.

  While Skardroft was answering some observation from the man on his left, Tor said to her neighbour, “Have you known my grandfather long?”

  “I’ve had that honour for many years; it must be, oh, thirty or more.”

  “Did you help him invade Calambria?”

  Skardroft stopped mid-sentence, and swivelled round to listen. Glancing from Tor to the King, the guest’s expression became uneasy. His mouth opened and shut.

  “Were you a soldier?” Tor pursued heartlessly.

  Skardroft laughed. “Gambon was one of Urquin’s courtiers. He thought he’d do better following me, didn’t you, Gambon? I made it worth his while.”

  “Your Majesty was most generous,” the man muttered, trying to smile.

  “So not a soldier,” Tor concluded, picking up her fork. “A traitor.”

  A moment’s suspense, then the King gave a great burst of laughter. Cautiously, his guests joined in, even Gambon doing his best to appear amused. “Torbrek, I can’t tell you what a delight it is to have someone at my table who says what he thinks. A pleasant change, a luxury kings seldom enjoy.” He glanced round at his guests and raised his goblet. “To Torbrek, my grandson.”

  Six goblets were lifted.

  “Torbrek!”

  Skardroft went to his bedchamber that night more cheerful than he had been for years, well pleased that he had brought Torbrek to Tarragon.

  The boy was being a little recalcitrant, of course; that had to be expected when he was here against his will. But despite making it plain he would not give an inch, and his occasional barbed comments, Torbrek had shown himself prepared to converse with his grandfather, and had proved good company, quick-witted, spirited, and level-headed for his years.

  It was all working out better than he could have hoped. Particularly after the regrettable business with Cramble. At the time it had been logical; they knew Attalor’s grandson lived there; were rightly certain he’d have been trained as a Knight. Skardroft’s orders had been, tell the villagers to hand over the Knight they harboured; if they refused, burn the village and the hidden enemy with it. It would encourage other villages to be less stubborn.

  A thousand pities Corfe had not discovered Torbrek’s identity a few days before he did. Just four days – no, three – and Cramble would have been spared. Skardroft reflected that torching his home village, and everyone in it, was not the best start to his relationship with Torbrek. It had driven him into the arms of the rebels. If only he had known in time, he’d have gone himself to Cramble to talk to him. But it was done now, no going back; the main thing was that his grandson had escaped the inferno.

  Skardroft smiled, remembering Torbrek at the dinner table, after he’d baited Gambon. The servant was pouring his brandy; he glowed with youth and health in the warm lamp-light, self-contained, his mouth curved in a slight smile. Watching Torbrek’s face, he’d thought; he’s so young, surely it’s not too late to change his beliefs and allegiance.

  Skardroft had never bothered much about family. He’d had a wife, two sons and a daughter there in the background of his life should he ever need them, while he got on with more important matters. He hadn’t needed them very much. He had never really got to know them. Now they were all dead, and as he got older he began to regret having no child; no one of his own blood to mentor and take pride in; no one who would care when he died, and carry on where he left off.

  On hearing about Torbrek, it seemed as though he had been given another chance. When they met, he was pleased to find in him a grandson he could be proud of. Unfortunately though, as the days went by and he got to know him better, he found the very qualities he valued in him made him intractable. He would have felt contempt for someone he could push around, but at the same time it was inconvenient that Torbrek was unpushable.

  An intelligent man, he perceived the paradox, but being stubborn and accustomed to getting his own way, refused to admit defeat.

  CHAPTER 11

  Jervaid

  Tor knew she had to escape, that much was plain. How she would escape was less obvious. But there had to be an opportunity sooner or later, and when it came she must be ready for it. One thing she could usefully do was to memorize the layout of the palace. She would have done the same with the city, except that she had not yet been outside, and was not sure she was ever going to be allowed to. She would study the view from her windows as a start.

  The first morning she woke early, got up and opened the window to have a look through the bars. If only she had a file and a rope – or just a file, she could make a rope from the bedding… The quiet capital spread below her, the houses, streets and gardens seeming still asleep, with only the birds stirring. But for Skardroft, she would have inherited an estate just outside Tarragon. Maybe it was one of the ones visible from her window in the countryside beyond the city walls.

  To her far left she could make out a group of barracks surrounding a small square. In the middle of the square was a post. As she was looking a squadron of soldiers marched into the square and lined up around the edges. A man was escorted out of the barracks by two soldiers, their crimson and black uniforms contrasting with the prisoner’s white shirt. He removed his shirt with fumbling fingers, faced the post, and they tied his hands above his head. An officer in full dress uniform read from a paper. Tor could not hear what he said, but she could hear the faint crack of the whip above the birdsong when the flogging began.

  She watched, her hands gripping the bars so hard they hurt, as his back turned into a bloody mess, like scorched and blackened meat. Surely, she kept thinking, it must be over soon, but it went on and on. Every ten blows, another officer took over the whip. Tor felt sick; it was agonizing to witness, but she felt unable to move from the window. Eventually the man was untied, and, unable to stand, was dragged away between two so
ldiers.

  Indignation burned in her at the man responsible for this cruelty; Skardroft. It was an inhuman, savage punishment. She would speak to him about it as soon as she next saw him.

  She did not get an opportunity until dinner time that evening, having passed the day alone in her room. As soon as she saw him, she broached the matter. Skardroft seemed genuinely surprised by his grandson’s anger and distress.

  “But you are a soldier yourself; you know an army needs discipline.”

  “Not like that.” In the loyalist army, a reprimand to a soldier from Barlanik was a serious matter, and seldom necessary.

  “You may be sure that he deserved it. We cannot let offenders go unpunished. However, I do not want you disturbed by such matters. Leave it to me.”

  He had the floggings moved to the other side of the palace, where Tor could not see or hear them from her window.

  Used to a very active life, Tor hated being cooped up for most of the day in her apartments. She was only let out to spend the evenings with Skardroft in his state rooms, where they talked over dinner so he could get to know his grandson, or listened to a troubadour. Sometimes, when he came to her rooms instead, it meant she had spent the whole day there. It seemed a strange way of widening her horizons.

  She had read all the books in the first three days. After that she whittled a little model of Carrots with her penknife, using firewood from the hearth. Doing the back legs was tricky, and Tor wasn’t quite satisfied with them. She strummed the lute, and wondered if she should teach herself to play it; but Skardroft had neglected to supply a teach-yourself lute-playing book. Her eye fell on the chessboard. She banged on the outer door till the guards opened it.