“Tell me, did you find much treasure?” Cara asked. She raised her right hand. Perry’s met hers.
“Yes, but we’re giving most of it away.”
A strange smile oozed from Cara’s face. “Giving it away?” she asked, uncomprehendingly.
In line with others to their left and right, they retreated with three quick steps, twisted right, then left, then came together again. Cara’s body touched Perry’s, which the dance did not prescribe. Perry almost had an accident.
“Talarren’s like that,” Perry explained. “And so is his obsessive friend, that tiresome cleric who never has a hair out of place, even when fighting yetis in a blizzard. They wanted to share our booty with prisoners and villagers and every peasant across the Highlands. Much of it will go to Aelred to distribute to his precious poor.” Perry wasn’t sure whether a black shadow crossed Cara’s face. Was his semi-intoxicated imagination responsible for imagining things? Or was it something he said? Either way, for some unaccountable reason, it shocked him. Almost frightened him. He blinked a few times, then allowed his eyes to fall on Cara again. She looked a picture of innocent beauty. Her extended right palm met his left palm. Perry noticed again a sparkle in her mottled green eyes. Was he falling for this tremendously attractive maiden, despite Aelred’s disembodied admonitions?
“You must have found other treasures, too,” Cara began. “Precious artefacts and such?” Perry described items of particular value. His excitement reached fever pitch as he estimated their worth. They continued to dance, discussing Perry’s exploits. Eventually other maidens pressed Perry into dancing with them. Men clamoured to dance with Cara.
Sometime later in the wee hours, minstrels and bards, hoarse and weary, ceased music and song. They packed up their instruments. Servants scurried here and there, anxious to begin their enormous task of cleaning up before rising early to prepare breakfast for Thane Landreth’s guests. Inebriated men and women stumbled back to their quarters. Talarren and Caspar had long since retired. Razel stood chatting amongst feverish noblemen. Kron, seated comfortably by a large fire and furnished with a thane-sized, ornately-carved quaich of superior ale, regaled youngsters with tales of Albatross Mountains and glorious exploits of dwarven kings. Memories of such celebrations weighed heavily upon him, yet his voracious listeners detected no hint.
Perry searched everywhere for Cara. He remembered her insistence on keeping her presence secret, especially from Talarren and Caspar. She promised to see him back in Reswald and made him promise not to give his heart to another woman and to stay safe. It all made sense to him at the time, but now, Perry was not so sure. Why come all this way to Landreth Castle, desperate to see him after his pirate ordeal, only to snatch moments with him during a dance, meet briefly in a private chamber down a hall, then disappear again? Of course, he told himself, she knew Talarren did not approve of her, which is why she probably acted so secretively. These young beautiful spellcasters were a species apart. One couldn’t judge them by normal standards. Take Razel. She was just the same.
Aelred’s warnings recurred like a battery assault. He dismissed them. Just because Aelred preferred reliable, grounded women didn’t mean he had to. And what did Talarren know about women? A man who’d pledged himself to celibacy in the cause of fighting evil? Why should he listen to a man like that? Cara, mysterious and exciting, was his kind of maiden. Her youth and staggering beauty merely added to her allure. Yes, he would pursue her back in Reswald. But first, he’d try his luck with Queen Zenobia. Of all women, she was worthiest, given Razel wanted him not. Why shouldn’t he go for a Warrior Queen? He was now a stupendously wealthy man. He would buy his own vineyards and olive groves in Lafarrhine’s fertile hinterland. And a huge country estate neighbouring on his parents’ estate. He would hire a guard and valet, go on more adventures, travel anywhere in style. His fame as a successful bounty-hunter was growing year by year. Having blood ties to the mightiest hero of their age, his big brother Aelred, practically metamorphosed his blood into royal blue. Why would Queen Zenobia not fall for him? His classically handsome face, his legendary dimples couldn’t but attract her. They could undertake adventures together. Working in tandem, why, they could bring a Black Dragon to heel. They’d snare the Sorceress of Llularven in her own web, bring to heel slave traders, forge a destiny as the most powerful and beautiful couple of their age. Even taming the Eastern Wilderness lay within their combined force. They could be King and Queen of a newfound realm out East.
Giddy with such thoughts, dizzy on wine, beauty and success, Perry yawned, then traipsed back to his room, which he was obliged to share with Kron due to Thane Landreth’s numerous guests. He did not even both to undress, but slumped on his luxurious bed and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
On the morrow, Olaf the Merciless was duly hung by his neck before a vast, cheering crowd of tens of thousands of Highlanders and guests. They preserved his head in a reliquary filled with liquid made by apothecaries for preservation, set on a specially-made pedestal and placed behind bars in one of Thane Landreth’s dungeons.
Talarren handed Thane Landreth a chest containing enormous treasures for the restoration of Highlander towns, villages and castles ravaged by Norse pirates. He gave another chest for distribution to the victims of the riads to be administered by Robert and Bruce. Thus sealed forever Talarren and his party of adventurers’ friendship with Thane Landreth and all Highlanders.
Druids were handed King Harrad’s earthly remains to embalm and preserve with oils and herbs. In doing so, they noticed a thin roll of parchment hidden in the lining of his decaying tunic. Talarren, watching them at work, gasped. He did not think to search the tunic. They handed him the parchment. He unrolled it and began reading.
“To my dear sons, Alex and Lucien, and to my daughter Sheila,
I hope to Rohalgamoth this letter reaches you, though why I harbour such hope in the ebbing tide of my life I do not know. I have written dozens, perhaps hundreds of letters over these years of captivity, smuggling them out through captives brought to this lonely island by forced abduction, then sent on their way to Galapagos, to be sold as slaves. I had hoped these letters would find their way to you. I do not know if any did, but I doubt it.
I am now old before my time. Though ripped from castle and home, and witness to barbarity I wish you never experience, somehow Olaf the Merciless has shown me mercy. He has never once whipped or treated me badly, even though he does to all around him, especially his slaves. At first I believed Olaf wanted me for ransom money I knew would never come, especially when I learnt that Dagan had usurped my throne. But when Olaf himself realised no ransom would come, he did not change his clemency toward me. He made me Head Steward of his household. Then he turned to piracy. I have been well-fed, and given, as much as possible, freedom upon this cursed island, from where Olaf, his deputies, druids, shamans and pirates have been operating successfully for over a decade and living like kings.
I am now dying. Freezing winters are taking their toll on my old bones. Though only forty eight years of age, frost and loss have taken their toll. I write my final letter, still hoping for escape. I wish to bequeath to you that which fate never allowed me during your young life, stolen as I was from you. I want to tell you what happened in those final moments during the Norse invasion of our land.
Their wizards and shamans breached our walls. Some of us managed to escape through a trapdoor in the keep to underground chambers where lay our treasury and dungeons. I saw your mother hacked down in front of my eyes. Esmerelda, our maid, carried Sheila while my sister, your aunt Matilda, rushed you through a secret passageway leading into the forest. That was the last I ever saw of you. I never knew whether any of you made it out alive. Alex, you were two years old. Lucien, you were one. Sheila, you were only a suckling infant.
Wearing the Amulet of Power remains the only explanation for my inexplicable survival. Though Olaf saw me wear it, he never took it. Even its deep green emerald and shining diamonds never te
mpted his greedy heart. It does indeed contain some ancient power. With tears in my eyes, beyond reasonable hope, I nevertheless bequeath stewardship of this Amulet to you, Alex, as my first-born son and rightful heir to Reswald’s throne. It is a family heirloom gifted to us from the Guardians of Rahalgamoth for as long as we pledge to honour the Pact. My ardent desire is that you grow into a man of your destiny, to grow strong in courage, standing against evils that beset our realm, and especially to rid ourselves of the curse of Dark Arts; these Arts have taken root in Reswald through the Grove of Purple Ivy, a band of druids with a shady past who show a virtuous face but secretly are given over to sinister goals.
I also bequeath to you my undying love and loyalty. If you knew how often I tried to escape, how many times I tried to bargain with, negotiate or threaten Olaf to set me free, you would know how much I loved you. Not a day passed without me thinking of each of you, and mourning the loss of your mother, Queen Annael, my beloved and loyal wife.
My loss and deep longing deprive me of vigour. Alas, Olaf grows in strength. His spell-casters become more powerful, his strategies more evasive. It seems he will never be brought to justice. Meanwhile, I know not whether my three children are alive or dead – are they slaves in some far-flung corner of the world, or living hidden lives ignorant of their rightful heritage, or outcasts?
And so I write. I will keep this letter on my person. I will never relinquish hope. Though my end is near I cling to hope, for such is the calling of kings - to hope in defiance of hopelessness, to hope on behalf of the people. May Harrad hope course in your veins. May you be faithful to the Pact of Rohalgamoth. May justice restore righteousness before darkness overtakes us.
Your everloving father,
King Harrad of Reswald
Heart pounding, face tight with the effort of repressing tears welling inside him, Talarren rolled up the scroll and placed it inside his pocket. Alex would never read this letter from his father. And he had a sister! If opportunity permitted, he would track Sheila down. And Alex’s younger brother, Lucien.
“What is it, Talarren?” Razel asked, echoing a question everyone noticed upon seeing such emotion in their Ranger’s face.
“A father’s dying words to his family,” was all Talarren said before moving quickly to tend to details of transportation. Later, away from prying eyes, he showed it to Caspar.
Caspar nodded his understanding. Proof this was indeed the Amulet of Power. “Word of its discovery must remain secret for now,” Caspar said. Caspar instinctively turned to Talarren. Talarren placed his hand on his chest, indicating its whereabouts. Caspar nodded.
“We must gather the Companions of Aelred.”
Talarren nodded. “I have sent Esmay ahead to Queen Zenobia. She will gather the Companions. We travel directly for her Citadel. We must not disclose our finding to anyone, including our own party, if we don’t want to attract the wrong sort of attention.”
Perry suggested they transport their treasure to the Citadel of the Warrior Queen for safekeeping. From there they could pay her soldiers to safely transport their loot to Alonçane’s famed treasure vaults. Everyone agreed. A river barge rigged with a broad sail was put at Talarren’s disposal to take them down Frostibank River to Rainbow Sea.
“Could there be any other reason you suggest Queen Zenobia’s citadel?” Caspar asked, eyeing Perry suspiciously.
“Meaning?” Perry asked a little too innocently.
Elfindi shook his head. “So transparent,” he sighed.
“Meaning?” Perry repeated. “It makes perfect sense, does it not? Who else can guarantee safe passage of our treasure?”
“He’s right,” Kron agreed.
“Does it have anything to do with Queen Zenobia’s ethereal beauty?” Caspar insisted.
Razel rolled her eyes in disgust.
“I think she fancies me,” Perry said.
Talarren smiled, shaking his head.
“A lowly adventurer fancied by a Warrior Queen?” Elfindi asked. “Your mind is addled by this Iceland Sea air. Besides, have you forgotten the tiny detail of her husband?”
“She won’t be the first royal to find me attractive,” Perry skited, his confidence at an all-time high. “Wait till she hears about my Norse exploits. She’ll be swept off her feet.”
“Don’t forget your irresistible dimples,” Razel reminded him contemptuously.
“As a matter of fact,” Elfindi clarified, “that royal Perry refers to was an orc queen that desired him. True enough, but for eating, not anything else.”
“I’m sure Perry desired this royal orc with equal relish,” Kron said.
“That,” Perry retorted, hands on hips, “was uncalled for.”
Kron laughed.
Chapter Twenty One
A Night Attack
FAVOURABLE WINDS BLEW SOUTH all afternoon. They weighed anchor as the dying vestiges of light disappeared behind tall treetops blocking the Western horizon. Along the riverbank not an animal stirred. An icy wind contorted the moon’s reflection as it rippled across the river’s surface. Talarren had asked Caspar for the Amulet before the cleric retired for the night. He wanted to feel in his hands the artefact of the gods that contained such power. He toyed with it as he kept vigil outside their barge cabin where a carefully-managed fire gave them some respite from the biting cold. Hunter lay by his feet covered in a thick woollen blanket.
“There’s no danger here,” Captain Rowbottom told Talarren. “You can sleep easy tonight.”
However, a niggling feeling haunted Talarren. His High Elf bow and quiver lay beside him. Through his thick woollen cloak and fur-lined shirt, he fingered the Amulet of Power. Its bejewelled simplicity amazed him. On this common frosty evening, a magic and arcane artefact most mortals would never encounter in their lifetime, an item of momentous significance, hung around his neck.
An eerie stillness disturbed him. Did this Amulet somehow intensify his senses? He seemed to hear everything more clearly, even see more clearly in surrounding darkness. Like an oncoming fever, fear crept upon him. Hunter let out a whine, then stood up, alert.
Fear suddenly gripped Talarren..
Moments later, without warning, a violent beating of giant wings filled his ears. An evil presence struck him. He could not tell from where. Always seeking the element of surprise, Talarren did not raise the alarm except by a shrill bird whistle. Immediately his friends awoke, scrambling to their feet and reaching for their weapons. Razel grabbed her staff, casting a Protection! spell. Caspar followed suit. They bound through cabin doors to meet Talarren on the barge’s flat deck.
Somewhere above, a terrifying screech chilled their blood. Talarren raised his loaded bow skyward. Powerful wingflaps sounded overhead. Then a ray of darkness, darker than night, a darkness that sucked life itself raced toward them. A shock like a bolt flung Talarren aside. A green hue exploded from inside his coat, emanating from his hidden Amulet. It rose instantaneously, sucking the ray of death into itself in a blast of green energy.
“A rastamal,” Talarren cried.
From high above, the beating of heavy wings approached again. Caspar’s Shield! spell protected them from an unidentified spell. Razel lifted her staff, crying, “Dispel Magic!” Caspar raised his staff, spreading a dim glow of light in every direction. But the winged creature had disappeared into dark, cloudy mists, along with Talarren’s sense of evil and foreboding.
“They’re gone,” he said.
“By all the gods,” Kron whispered, his voice hoarse with fear, “what in the devil’s name was that?”
“You answered your own question,” Caspar said. “A rastamal. I’d recognise it anywhere.” He turned to Talarren. In the dim glow of Caspar’s magical spell, Talarren’s face confirmed Caspar’s suspicions. His storm-grey eyes smouldered, his face set like flint.
“What are you saying?” Razel cried, her heart pounding from the hideous monster’s wail.
“That was a Death Ray! spell,” Caspar explained, his vo
ice hoarse, furs covering his neck. A grim, determined expression bleached his face. “That was a Dark Arts incantation, without a doubt. All of us could have been killed stone dead.”
A deathly silence followed Caspar’s words. Captain Rowbottom, still half-hidden in the doorway, attempted to speak. Instead he squealed. He shut his mouth with embarrassment. Blackbirds cried nearby. A flock of parrots screeched in dismay. In the distance, a wolf howled. The rastamal’s scream had upset the rhythm of night, distressing birds and animals for leagues around.
“What was that green colour that swallowed that Death Ray spell?” Kron wondered aloud. “It seemed to come from our barge.”
Keen to deflect discussion from the Amulet, Talarren thanked Caspar and Razel for their protection spells. He stole a look at Caspar, who knew exactly what had protected them.
“We were unprepared,” Talarren observed.
“How could we possibly have prepared for that?” Perry snapped, annoyed, still shaken by the rastamal screech. “If those winged blackguards show their faces again, I’ll gut them like a deer.”
Like a fast flowing stream, so did Talarren’s thoughts scurry through his mind. He encouraged his friends to go back to sleep. He needed quiet. Who had attacked them? They would not be back, he felt sure. They had discovered what they came to discover.
“Of course,” Kron said sarcastically. “We’ve nearly been wiped out by a Dark Arts spellcaster flying with a monster that almost killed us with its cry alone. We’re trapped on a barge like rats in the middle of a river, and you want us to sleep?”
“They will not attack again,” Talarren assured him. “We fended them off. We must sleep.”
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