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

by Lexi Revellian

  Barlanik turned to Tor, shocked that her life had been so nearly ended when he had not even realized she was in danger. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, I’m fine. Edric’s dead, though.” Tor sounded disbelieving. “He saved my life.”

  Kerris reappeared with Barlanik’s dagger and handed it to him. “Just one man. You got him through the throat. Dead.”

  One of their watchers at the window who had kept to his station in spite of the drama behind him called, “Something’s happening across the court. I think it’s the Guard.”

  Barlanik looked round at his soldiers. “This was probably a one-off, but be vigilant in case there are more snipers hidden in the palace. Let’s go.”

  He headed across the courtyard at a run, his troops following, leaving Edric’s body lying where he had fallen, Tor’s forgotten helmet beside him. Tor put her narrow escape and Edric’s death from her mind till later, and ran with the rest to fight the Palace Guard in the hall across the courtyard.

  The Guard were expert fighters, among the best Skardroft had, and on their own territory, but were not helped by the excellent view of the conflict the palace afforded. They knew they were fighting a losing battle, and began to give ground. In action once more Tor felt exhilarated and invulnerable as she always did in combat; as though nothing could go wrong, her sword and black dagger lethal, cutting down the enemy soldiers before her.

  Another fell aside, and she turned ready to defeat the last before running up the staircase with the others. There was something familiar about his eyes; she paused for a moment and Jervaid lifted his helmet to the back of his head, having recognized her at once, bareheaded as she was.

  She stood, her weapons ready, her breathing fast from the fighting, and saw that he looked just the same as before; though when she thought about it there was no reason for him to look different, except that her feelings for him had changed. Although she no longer loved him, she still thought him heart-stoppingly good-looking. She remembered Jervaid tuning the lute in her rooms when she was a captive here, Jervaid kissing her at sunset on the battlements; Jervaid as she’d seen him after the skirmish, helpless, unconscious, the life bleeding out of him, and Drewitt going to leave him to die. She imagined him like that again, this time his wounds made by her, and the thought sickened her.

  “Tor. What an unexpected pleasure,” he quoted ironically. He too had thoughts of the last time they met, it seemed.

  She lowered her weapons, knowing he would not take advantage of it; he was not that sort of treacherous. “You should have stayed on our side, Jervaid.”

  “Yes…a miscalculation on my part. Those dragons were a particularly nasty surprise. I suppose I could ask Barlanik if he’d have me back…no, on second thoughts, perhaps not.”

  “How is Linet? Where is she?”

  “Linet’s fine – worries a bit about you lot. She’s with my parents on the estate.”

  “And how are you?” Tor still liked Jervaid, and always would.

  “Couldn’t be better.” He laughed. “Promotion prospects not too good, though, even before your army beat hell out of us today. Your grandfather seems to have taken against me – he’s got quite a temper, hasn’t he?”

  “What happened?”

  “He came to the conclusion I had dishonourable intentions towards you, and wasn’t too pleased. He was quite right, of course.” He looked at her. “I still feel the same, actually…pity nothing came of it…”

  Tor felt absurdly flattered. She reminded herself that his tastes were pretty inclusive and pulled herself together. They were in the middle of a battle, on opposite sides. He was still gazing at her.

  “Look, I wish we hadn’t met like this,” she said. “I don’t want to kill you.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I’m honoured. You’re always so thoughtful. Would you feel better perhaps if I killed you?”

  “I doubt you could. Why don’t we just pretend we didn’t see each other?” Tor knew she shouldn’t be doing this. Leaving even one of Skardroft’s men alive behind them was not good idea.

  “Tor, what did I say to you about your bad habit of saving my life?” He had the same slow, captivating smile as ever. “Don’t think I’m not grateful – it’s an unconventional suggestion, but one that I could warm to…”

  “Then take my advice, and get out of here.”

  She made to go, but Jervaid stopped her with a hand on her arm and said, his voice soft and persuasive, “Why don’t you come with me? You’d like it, you know…we could leave Tarragon, just you and me, go abroad, see new places. Kick over the traces, Tor. Live dangerously. We’d be good together.”

  Tor laughed, genuinely amused. He’s crazy, does he really imagine there’s any chance at all I’d do that? After he went off with Linet?

  “Thanks for the offer, Jervaid, but I think not. I’ll be seeing you,” Tor quoted in her turn.

  Jervaid watched her go, racing lightly up the grand staircase to follow her friends, then turned to leave, sheathing his sword. He would not stay to fight any longer on the losing side; he would make his way back home through the war-torn city, hoping to be unchallenged, trying for once to keep out of trouble.

  They were waiting for Tor as she reached the top of the stairs. Barlanik looked relieved to see her. The wide corridor ran to right and left.

  “Which way are the state rooms, Tor?”

  “To the right.”

  “Kerris and I will go that way, you and Drewitt check out the other side.”

  The two parties set off in opposite directions. Tor knew Barlanik wanted to spare her the sight of Skardroft’s death, which could be the only possible outcome now. They had him cornered; he must be at bay somewhere up here, most likely in his state apartments, with a hand-picked bodyguard. She felt a stab of anguish for him.

  Tor, Drewitt and their men ran along the corridor, systematically crashing open each door they came to and looking inside, weapons at the ready. The rooms were deserted, and eerily silent except for the faint distant din of battle. The air was still. At the end of the passage was the tower staircase that led only to the rooms Tor had occupied. She led the way, pounding up the stairs, Drewitt and the men close on her heels, their steps echoing in the quiet. The door at the top which the soldiers used to guard was wide open.

  Skardroft stood on his own, unarmed, against the barred window, gazing out over the battle-scarred city. He turned and saw his granddaughter, motionless in the doorway, soldiers behind her.

  “Torbrek!” His face lightened. “I’ve been waiting for you.” He spoke as though they were alone, and about to go hawking together.

  Drewitt shoved her aside, crossed the room in six swift strides, and ran his sword under Skardroft’s ribs. For a moment nobody moved, then the King staggered and fell against the wall. Tor ran across and knelt by his side. His hand moved towards her and she held it tightly, as his breath laboured in his throat and blood blotted his clothes.

  Skardroft scanned her face, refreshing his memory of her. He’d hoped she would come back, and here she was beside him where she belonged. She was very dear to him; she was alive, and in the end nothing else mattered very much. Everything he’d striven for in his life, power, status, success, shrank to insignificance. He no longer knew why he’d thought them important.

  “Torbrek.”

  “Grandfather…”

  “Stay with me, don’t go away again.”

  “I’m here now. I won’t go.”

  His hand gripped hers. “Perhaps later…we’ll have a game of chess…not that I ever got you to play properly…”

  Tor tried to smile. “No, you always beat me. I wasn’t good enough…”

  He looked deep into her eyes with love and pride. “You’re good enough, Torbrek. And you’ve beaten me now…” he paused for breath, and said with an effort, “Knight takes King…checkmate.” He smiled at her, sharing the joke.

  Tears filled her eyes, and ran down her face. Her grandfather watched her weep; it was th
e last thing he would see. She cared about him, she was crying for him. Skardroft felt a profound inner peace and satisfaction he couldn’t remember ever having felt before.

  His vision dimmed. The past flashed bright in his mind. Cantering through sunlit glades with Torbrek…laughing together at a joke no one else got. Wine on the terrace at sunset, his city golden below them. Himself in his prime, vigorous, invincible, fighting through this palace as she had today; victory, the ragged boy a king. The birth of his eldest son; staring at the tiny, perfect baby and saying, I’ll give him a kingdom. Kneeling to receive his black dagger and become one of the Hundred. Slipping out of his father’s run-down cottage into the crisp dawn, his hawk on his wrist, knowing he’d never return, the whole world waiting. The day Stealth first flew free, and came back to him. His mother’s face, all he needed, her blue-grey gaze…

  Tor bent forward and kissed his forehead. He felt her touch, as his senses faded and the darkness spread. She drew back, and saw his wandering eyes fix and grow dull. His hand relaxed and slipped from her grasp. Outside, the church bells rang. The day was theirs.

  People were coming to see the dead tyrant for themselves. Tor got up and pushed past the crowd, down the stairs and along the corridors she remembered so well from her captivity in the palace. Someone called her name but she did not look round. She made her way to the room where she had first met Skardroft, where the black daggers were displayed. Knuckling the tears out of her eyes, she dragged the table nearer the wall and put a chair on it so she could reach the display. She took down the central dagger that had been Skardroft’s; she would keep it for Pom when he became a Knight.

  Barlanik was waiting for her as she climbed down. He put his arms round her and held her awkwardly, their armour getting in the way, as she cried for her dead grandfather.

  CHAPTER 32

  A toast on the battlements of Tarragon

  That evening the Knights and loyalist officers celebrated in the main palace stateroom. The Knights had taken down Skardroft’s display of black daggers and packed them away to take back to their headquarters at Atherly Berrow, which they would now reclaim. If they noticed one dagger was missing, they did not say anything about it. Tor had never seen so many people in the room, and never such a party atmosphere; the many conversations and laughter made it difficult to picture how it had been when she and Skardroft played chess there. There were even musicians in the minstrels’ gallery, their music barely audible above the noise.

  Gwenderith had joined them, in spite of her sorrow over Edric’s death, and was sitting apart with Farren in a window seat, while he did his best to comfort her. He held her hand and her beautiful sad eyes gazed trustingly into his. Pom had left them to it, and was deep in conversation with Haskell about being a squire. Everyone else was talking over the battle and relaxing. Barlanik was in demand, and had barely exchanged a word with Tor. Every so often, though, she would look to see where he was and find his eyes on her.

  As it got near midnight Tor was chatting to Cassarian, who remembered Attalor well from the time they had trained as squires together. He told her stories about his exploits as a young man, and in return she told him about Attalor as she knew him in her childhood. Like all the Knights present that evening, Cassarian had no objections to Tor’s gender, but she had gathered from Pom that several of the older Knights had reservations. When she mentioned this, he told her that he would personally see to it that even the most conservative Knights accepted her as one of their number.

  “Leave it to me,” he said, patting her shoulder in a fatherly way, “we need more Knights like you.”

  When he was called away Kerris came over to her. Tor had not yet got used to his disfigured face, and still felt a jolt of distress each time she saw him that she was careful not to show. He carried a bottle in one hand and three of Skardroft’s golden goblets in the other.

  “Come on, Tor, we’ve got to go up to the battlements for our toast, we always said we would. Let’s get Barlanik, he’s on the terrace.”

  Tor, Kerris and Barlanik left together and went up to the palace battlements to drink the toast they had envisaged for so long. It was a mild moonlit night and seemed quiet and cool after the party. The fighting was long over; the town below was Urquin’s once more. Drewitt’s unit was on patrol to keep order, but there was little for it to do. They could see the dotted lights of bonfires in the streets, where the townspeople were celebrating. They could sometimes hear singing and cheering on the breeze. It looked as if the revelry might go on all night.

  Kerris poured the drinks. “A toast on the battlements of Tarragon,” he said, clinking goblets with the others. “We made it, and with hardly a scratch on us.”

  Tor and Barlanik echoed his words, sipping Skardroft’s excellent brandy. Kerris suddenly frowned.

  “Did anyone see Jervaid in the battle? He must have been there.”

  “I did,” said Tor. “He was in the palace at the foot of that big staircase. I let him go.”

  Kerris stared at her, lost for words. At last he said, “Lucky for him he met you and not me or Barlanik.”

  “I don’t know,” said Barlanik, “I might have done the same, though possibly for different reasons.” He shot a look at Tor.

  Kerris shook his head in exaggerated disbelief. “Good thing it was Drewitt who found Skardroft, then, with you two gone soft.”

  Barlanik looked pained. “He was her grandfather.”

  Tor grieved for Skardroft, and still felt shaken after witnessing his death. Just as she had been Skardroft’s only living relative, he had been hers. She was having trouble reconciling the victorious achievement of all their aims, including the death of a hated tyrant, with the loss of a grandfather who had loved her in his own way, and of whom she had grown fond. She kept thinking of him, standing there alone and defenceless at the end, and part of her felt irrationally guilty at not saving his life. She needed time to come to terms with it.

  “Sorry. By the way, do you realize that Tor is Skardroft’s heir? Shouldn’t we clap her in irons just in case?”

  Barlanik smiled. “I’ll keep her under close observation instead.”

  There was a pause while they all pursued their own thoughts. After a while Kerris said, “Tor, I don’t suppose Jervaid said anything about Linet?”

  “Yes, I forgot to tell you – he said she’s fine, staying with his parents on their estate.”

  Kerris looked at Barlanik. “I’d like to go and see her, make sure she’s all right. Do you mind?”

  “No, I’d be glad, as long as you don’t get into a fight with Jervaid. You’ve got to promise me you won’t do that.”

  “Do you want me to come with you?” Tor asked.

  “No, I’d rather go on my own, though thanks for the offer.” Kerris did not want to talk about Linet. He still felt acute regret and a sense of loss over her elopement. He changed the subject. “What about Edric, then? He turned up trumps in the end, didn’t he? Who would have thought it?”

  Tor looked guilty. “I was just telling him he was a prat, and then he took that arrow instead of me.”

  “Well, he was a prat, poor sod,” said Kerris. “He fancied you, though.”

  “What?” Tor was amazed. “You’re wrong there, Kerris. All he ever did was criticize me. I wasn’t his idea of a woman at all.”

  “Maybe you weren’t, but all the same, he was definitely attracted. I could tell by the way he looked at you the other night when he’d had too much to drink. I’m surprised you didn’t notice it. That’s why he wouldn’t leave you alone.”

  Tor thought back to the dinner. Edric had been most persistent, impossible to get rid of, a total pain in fact. At last she had resigned herself to being in his company, made the best of it and, considering that they were disagreeing with each other over every topic, they had chatted quite pleasantly. Then the next day he had turned up at the Dragon Tower uninvited and stayed, watching her putting an edge on her sword and dagger, until she’d pretended she had
to meet Kerris so he would leave. Had she known these were the last few days of his life she would have been nicer to him, less argumentative. She wished she had been.

  “Well, thank God he was there when you needed him today. I shall always think kindly of him for saving your life.” Barlanik put an arm round Tor as if he had done it many times before. “We wouldn’t be celebrating now if he hadn’t got between you and that arrow. It’s bad for Urquin though, losing his son, just when he’d got Gwenderith back again.”

  With a warm glow from having his arm round her, Tor felt able to say, “You seemed to be getting on well with Gwenderith at the celebration dinner at the Castle the other night. Farren got a bit down over it.”

  “She’s changed. She’s more interesting since she went away, more confident, more real somehow. It did her good, not being a princess for a while; she’s an intelligent girl, much brighter than Edric was. I enjoyed talking to her, and I’ve never said that before. Not a bad choice for Farren.”

  Kerris got up and stretched. “I think I’ll turn in now. It’s been a long day. Well done, Barlanik; good campaign, good outcome.”

  Saying goodnight, he walked off. He had a feeling he was surplus to requirements; being a kind man, he thought he’d leave them alone together. They listened to Kerris’s receding footsteps.

  “Barlanik.”

  “What is it?”

  “I keep thinking, I could have saved Skardroft – if I’d been a bit quicker, I could have stopped Drewitt…I feel I let him down when he needed me.”

  “Put that thought from your mind, Tor. You would not have been doing him a favour. The Knights would have insisted on a trial, and condemned him to death. Think how many of them he killed. He was better off dying as he did.”