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

by Lexi Revellian

  Gwenderith sat down alone in this dreadful room, clutching Muffin to her, unable to think clearly. The idea that she might have to spend as much as a week here before being ransomed was unthinkable. She remembered with a pang Barlanik rushing out to organize search parties when Tor was missing. Would he do the same for her? Did he even know she had been kidnapped? Edric might not tell him, he was so furious with him. Edric would be looking for her…she would not admit she had more faith in Barlanik’s ability to find her than in her brother’s.

  A thought struck her – what about Barlanik’s letter to her father? Maybe it was important, and Barlanik would not know she could not deliver it, and there was nothing she could do about it.

  The door opened, and the little man brought in a bowl of food and a pottery mug. He put them down before Gwenderith on the table, sweeping off a few mouse droppings with his hand. Then, seeming struck by the contrast between her in jewelled brocade and her surroundings, he said apologetically, “We’ll only be here for a day or two, Princess, three at the most. This is like a staging post. You’ll prefer it where we’re going. Eat up, you’ll feel better for some food.”

  Gwenderith gave him a wan smile. When he had gone she tentatively lifted a spoonful of the greyish stew to her lips. It was disgusting; grease floated above sinewy lumps of mutton and unidentifiable vegetables. She offered it to Muffin, but he sniffed it uncomprehendingly. Used to a diet of chicken breasts and fillet steak, perhaps he didn’t realize it was supposed to be food. Cautiously, she sipped the drink and found it to be some sort of turbid ale. She felt completely wretched. Her misery over Barlanik had been made bearable by the prospect of going home to her father and mother who loved her. Now she felt like someone being driven distracted by an upset stomach and a throbbing headache at the same time.

  Sleep might give her a temporary release from her problems. She was not sure whether to undress or not; she would have to take down her own hair, and there was nowhere to wash. She turned back the blanket. Small flat creatures moved underneath it. Gwenderith froze, horrified; she had heard about these, they must be bed bugs, or lice. It was not possible to stay here. The idea of escape entered her mind.

  She remembered when she had been rescued from the Castle. Tor had asked her whether she’d tried to escape; she could recall exactly the expression on Tor’s face when she’d said, “Why, no,” because she had felt a little stung by it. Tor had looked as though she privately thought her pretty feeble, as though anyone with initiative would have at least made an attempt to get away. At the time Gwenderith had not known Tor was a girl, and had thought it was different for men. Perhaps Barlanik thought she was feeble too, and that was why he preferred Tor. She was sure Tor would have been out of here in no time. The window shutters were not even locked.

  Gwenderith went to the shutter and peered through a crack. The little man had made a fire a small way from her window and was sitting there, apparently enjoying a bowl of stew (unlikely as it seemed) and a large mug of ale. She supposed he was guarding her window while the other two rested.

  A plan, that was what she needed. She could easily open the shutter, stand on the stool and climb out. Her dress would get in the way a bit, and she would have to be careful not to snag it on the rough wood…she pulled herself together. Her dress was unimportant. Tor would not bother preserving her clothes in such a situation (but then, Tor’s clothes were considerably better designed for climbing). Muffin would have to be carried, because he was liable to bark if put down. What else? If she extinguished the candle now, the bandit would think she had gone to sleep, and relax his guard. It would not be possible to escape while he watched. Could she creep up behind him and hit him over the head? No, and not just because she had nothing to hit him with. Hitting people over the head was something she was certain she would be no good at. She might do it too hard, or not hard enough.

  Gwenderith blew out the candle and settled to wait for an opportune moment, her eye at the crack in the shutter.

  The carter dropped Pom off as dusk fell. He was half a day’s walk from Atherly Berrow through the forest.

  “Will you be all right?” the carter asked. Pom looked very young and small standing there alone. “It’ll be dark soon.”

  Pom smiled. “I was brought up in the forest. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. Thanks for the lift.”

  Pom had food and drink, his bow and arrows, a tinderbox, some snares, and an old blanket rolled up in a bag on his back. His small savings were in his safest pocket, with the old hunting knife that had belonged to his father. He intended to go as far as he could that night in the failing light, then make a fire and camp till dawn. If all went according to plan, he should reach Atherly Berrow well before lunch the next day.

  Gwenderith had been watching for an hour or so, she guessed. She was very tired, but too on edge to be sleepy. The bandit had done nothing except feed the fire with branches, fetch more ale, and scratch himself. She had been feeling itchy ever since she had turned back the blanket on the bed, and she wished he wouldn’t. Then he got up and walked away a discreet distance and disappeared behind a tree.

  This was her chance, Gwenderith knew. Her heart beat faster than it ever had before, frantic as a trapped bird and feeling as though it filled her whole chest. Very carefully, with quivering fingers, she opened the shutter slowly so it would not creak and clambered on to the windowsill, holding Muffin to her, and clumsily swung her legs over. There was a nasty moment when her dress caught, and then she was outside. Shaking, horribly certain she would be discovered at any second, thinking her heart would stop if there was a yell from the bandits or a sudden hand on her shoulder, she pushed the shutter closed behind her. She crept around the hovel to the opposite side, passed behind the horses tethered there, then ran as fast as she could into the forest, and did not stop running until she could run no more.

  When she had got her breath she started walking, determined to put as much distance as she could between herself and the bandits. She was elated; she would never have thought she could plan and execute an escape like that. Tor herself could not have done better. It was surprising what you could do if you had to. She was particularly pleased that she had thought to close the shutter. With luck, it would be morning before they realized she was gone.

  As it got darker, and the forest got thicker, and brambles tore spitefully at her dress, and she stumbled into unexpected dips in the ground, doubts began to assail her. She had no idea of where she was, the direction she was headed, or how big the forest was. Faint in the distance she could hear the eerie, musical sound of wolves howling. There was no food, and she was already hungry. Poor Muffin must be hungry too.

  And, in a flash, she thought – Tor would have taken one of the horses.

  It had not crossed her mind to do this, even when she had walked right past them. She forgot that she did not know how to harness a horse, or that she had never ridden a horse in her life. Tears of humiliation and frustration filled her eyes.

  She went on walking because there was nothing else she could do.

  Pom had caught two rabbits, which he skinned and jointed, and threaded on a stick to cook them over a fire. Some of it he would eat cold the next day. He collected bracken, and spread his blanket over it for a bed; he liked being alone in the dark with his own fire. It made him feel competent and grown-up. Gazing into the flames, he enjoyed the heat on his skin, the companiable crackles and the smell of the wood smoke. There was no need to think yet how he would go about his search the next day in Atherly Berrow. Once he got there he would know what to do. Leaning forward, he turned the rabbit on its makeshift spit. It was nearly done, and smelt delicious. He had remembered to bring some salt in a little screw of cloth.

  Something damp touched his arm; he looked down and saw a small milk-white dog looking up at him and wagging its tail. Surprised, he patted it. “Where did you come from?” There was a rustle in the trees and a girl appeared, very richly dressed, in fact looking like a…“Pri
ncess Gwenderith?” He could not believe his eyes. What was she doing here, on her own in the middle of the night, so far from the Castle?

  “Oh thank goodness!” Gwenderith looked around. “Who are you with, little boy? I need help. Is your father here?”

  “No, it’s just me.” Little boy. Huh.

  “Is your home near here? Can you take me there?” she asked eagerly.

  “I live near the Castle. I’ve seen you there. I’m going to Atherly Berrow.”

  Gwenderith sat down, utterly dejected, and stared into the fire. Muffin made little whining noises at her and pawed her dress until she picked him up.

  Pom felt awkward. “Are you all right?”

  She did not answer but her eyes filled with tears. The firelight glittered on her tears and the gold of her dress. Then an idea struck her and she turned to him. “You could take me back to the Castle! You must know the way. How long would it take?”

  “I can’t take you, I’ve got to go to Atherly Berrow.”

  “I could give you a lot of money,” she said hopefully. This child was her only prospect of getting home, she realized.

  “Look, I’m sorry, but I really can’t.” He took the stick with the rabbit joints off the fire, then noticed how she was looking at it. “Would you like some? I’ve got some bread as well, it’s a bit hard but all right.”

  “Yes please. Can Muffin have some too?”

  Over their food, the Princess told Pom how she had got there, and he told her he was on a quest to find what was left of the Hundred Knights to save the desperate situation at the Castle.

  Gwenderith, who had perked up considerably with food and company, said, “But my brother Edric will be bringing his army to help soon, then everything will be all right.”

  Pom looked at her. He had heard Tor talking with Kerris about Edric, and the least offensive word they had used to describe him was “useless”. He tried to be polite. “The thing is, they needed his army weeks ago. Tor thought it might never turn up. Do you know when it’s coming?”

  Gwenderith tried to remember whether Edric had said anything about it. “He didn’t seem to think it was very urgent. I’m sure he’ll bring the army in a week or two. If you can get me to Garock Holt I could try to persuade him to come sooner.”

  Pom shook his head. “That’s not good enough. We need the Knights, if I can find them.”

  “Can I come with you? I could hire a carriage to get home at Atherly Berrow, if they would wait to be paid…please, I’ll never find the way on my own.”

  Pom’s heart sank. The last thing he needed was to be saddled with a girl on his quest, a Princess in a fancy dress who couldn’t do anything, who would hold him up and slow him down and get upset. But he could hardly leave her here on her own. She would probably just wander around until she died of starvation, or something. In her own way, she was as useless as her brother. She was looking imploringly at him, her lip trembling. There, she was getting upset already.

  “Well, I suppose you can,” he said ungraciously, “but look, you’ve got to do what I say, and you’ve got to keep up with me because I can’t wait for you all the time. And once we get to Atherly Berrow, you’re on your own, because I’ll be busy looking for the Knights, and I won’t have time to organize carriages.”

  “Thank you,” said Gwenderith humbly. “I won’t be a nuisance, I promise.”

  “You could start by collecting bracken for a bed while I find some branches to keep the fire going. I want to set off at first light tomorrow.”

  Gwenderith slept better than she expected. She woke several times in the night and listened to the unfamiliar noises of the forest, never having slept out of doors before, but fell asleep again quickly. In spite of sleeping near the fire her feet got chilly, and she felt lucky to have Muffin who helped to keep her warm. The ground seemed to get harder as the hours passed, but it was preferable to the verminous straw mattress that she might have been sleeping on. Also she was free, and could hope to be home within days. Her parents must be worried about her, and she longed to set their minds at rest. She thought as little as possible about Barlanik. It only made her miserable, and the sooner she got over him the better it would be.

  Pom woke her as the first pale light slanted between the trees. Getting up was quick in the forest, she found; she was already dressed, washing was not an option, and breakfast was a rabbit’s leg eaten as you walked along. At home it took up the best part of two hours. Pom set a brisk pace, and Gwenderith concentrated on keeping up as he had told her.

  He had quite possibly saved her life, and it would be ungrateful indeed to inconvenience him.

  CHAPTER 22

  Barlanik's letter

  Pom and Gwenderith arrived on the outskirts of Atherly Berrow before noon, to the Princess’s relief. She was not used to walking, and nor were her embroidered kidskin slippers. Pom wondered how soon he could get rid of her; her clothes were drawing a lot of attention, and everyone was staring at them. He had intended to slip discreetly into the town, so he could nose around unnoticed. A group of Skardroft’s soldiers passed them, and they all turned and whistled and called out to Gwenderith.

  “I wish I was that dog,” said one. “Oy, princess, give us a smile,” said another.

  She paled and muttered to Pom, “How does he know?”

  Pom said impatiently, “He doesn’t, it’s just your clothes. Let’s find the coach place and get you on your way.”

  Luckily it was not too far from where they were. Pom loitered outside while Gwenderith went in.

  At last she came out looking distressed. “The fare’s ten crowns to Garock Holt, and they won’t trust me to pay when I get there. They weren’t very nice about it. I can’t tell them who I am, so they’d know I could pay, because they could tell the soldiers. I don’t like to ask you, but can you lend me the fare?”

  Pom stared at her as if she was mad. “I haven’t got that sort of money. I’ve got a crown, five groats, three pennies and a farthing, and I need that for my quest.” Why hadn’t it occurred to him that Gwenderith, as Urquin’s daughter, was in danger of arrest here? Skardroft had thought it worthwhile keeping her imprisoned before, and the place was swarming with his soldiers. She needed to get out of here fast. Where could they raise some money? “Have you got any jewellery you could sell?”

  Gwenderith shook her head. “The bandits took it.”

  Pom had an idea. “You could sell your dress – it must be worth a bit, and if you got an ordinary dress instead everyone would stop staring at you. We’ll have to find a pawn shop.”

  “Will you come in with me?” Gwenderith was not sure she could face any more new experiences alone; there had been too many in the last twenty-four hours, and none of them agreeable. How could you begin to sell a dress you were actually wearing? She had never sold anything in her life. She had barely handled money; there had always been someone to do that for her. Pom was only twelve, but he was all she had apart from Muffin, and she dreaded that he might go off and leave her on her own.

  “All right,” said Pom, “but then I’ll have to get on with my quest.”

  They set off towards the centre of the town to look for a pawnshop. Pom thought the first one they found looked too scruffy to want to buy a princess dress, but the next one seemed more up-market, with an elegantly painted sign saying “Pethick: Silver, Jewellery & Sundry Goods ~ Pawnbroker”.

  There were objets d’art and jewellery in the window, and the selection of clothes hanging up outside appeared to be clean and almost new. A bell rang as they went through the door. The shop was packed with every sort of item you could think of that had a value, arranged together in an orderly fashion by type. A bland man with spectacles came to greet them, eying the regal young lady with the lapdog and the shabby boy curiously. They made an unlikely pair.

  Pom spoke up. “We want to sell this dress,” he pointed, “and buy a plainer, cheaper one instead.”

  The man peered at Gwenderith’s gown, and fingered the cl
oth, turning her to the light. Its crimson brocade was stitched with gold beads and seed pearls, and only a little crumpled from being slept in. Gwenderith could not help looking haughty, and Pom nudged her. She tried to look as if she did not mind standing there having her dress appraised. After all, it was not so different from one’s dressmaker…

  “And how much were you thinking of asking?” said Pethick.

  “Ten crowns,” said Gwenderith, at the same time as Pom said, “Fifteen crowns.”

  Pom frowned at her. He knew you had to start higher than you wanted, to allow for being beaten down. She should have known to leave the bargaining to him.

  The man smiled. “Ah, I’m afraid you are both being rather optimistic. There’s very little call for this sort of gown, lovely as it is, exquisite workmanship. See how fine the stitching is. Perhaps you could tell me where it came from?” Neither of them volunteered an answer. He darted them a shrewd look as he said, “Most ladies who would wear such garments can afford to have them made to measure. Bespoke, as you might say. It’s a good fit on you.”

  “How much are you offering then?” asked Pom. Gwenderith thought she had better leave negotiations to him after her first blunder.

  “Six crowns, and a good plain dress thrown in, and that’s as good an offer as you’ll find anywhere.”

  Gwenderith looked at Pom in dismay. Pom was concentrating. “Ten crowns and you can have the matching slippers.”