Leiyatel's Embrace (Dica Series Book 1)

by Clive S. Johnson

  For a while, the purring voice dropped very low, indistinct yet still full of menace. Obsessed, the eyes drank in the close image of pendant mouse before drawing back blooded lips to spit a great gobbet of phlegm. As the mucous slowly sank, to join the blood at its nose, the voice purred on. “Poor mouse! Eyes ablaze! Juicy morsel!” At that it was spun by its tail in a blur, dislodging its nasal glob out in an arc to stain a circle on the floor.

  Prodded against grubby fingers by two sharp thumbs, its belly was broken open to expose raw innards. Pushed quickly and firmly against mouth, it was sucked from its fur coat and swallowed whole. As the pelt descended to the rooftops far below, a satisfied body now slumped back against the wall of the observatory, turned its eyes to the statue and winked. Smeared red, the mouth now spread a satisfied smile across its pale face.

  Usually, the head would have leant against the wall’s warm stones and closed its eyes, the better to savour the treat. On that one occasion, though, before closing fully they noticed something amiss. The face frowned as the body leant its head forward to scan the immense view below.

  Far, far below, lit by sunlight now breaking between sparse clouds, ushered along by the dying north wind, there was nothing more apparent than the usual spread. There lay the roofs and roadways, quadrangles and courtyards, walls, towers, trees and swards and all that made up the very crust of the castle. They blended together, at that far distance, into a rising sea of grey and green.

  Everything on that architectural wave seemed as it always had, just as somnolent and desolate. Birds still wheeled on the castle’s rising warmth, still hung scanning for prey. All there was exactly the same as it had always been. Further out, at the wave’s trough and beyond the spread of the castle, beyond its skirting walls and ramparts, the plains and fields of the vale formed gentle swell. They lapped away to the silvery Eyeswin and the emerald forest beyond.

  It was all the same, but wait! Yes, there, beyond the Great Wall, near the Ambec village, something was different. There were dark mounds beside the old road that hadn’t been there before. What was more, he noticed, there was also a body of men moving, as one, like a giant, green serpent bristling with hairs at its head.

  It was creeping away from the mounds, towards the village, and glinting in the sunlight. Before it became hidden by the Great Wall, understanding filled the mind behind those eyes. The nature of those heaps became all too clear, too frighteningly clear. A yelp came from between the bloody lips. Without a second glance from the eyes, the feet once more sprang into action. Running headlong for the stairs, they carried Laixac, the King’s Aide, to warn his liege Lord.

  6 A Short Audience with the King

  Hardly noticing the intricate route or the steadily increasing heaviness of the air, Falmeard followed Nephril’s lead in a kind of trance. It crowded out the closely confined walls and the scurrying sea of rats ahead, that spilled between them, and left him alone in his own confusion. What had once been nothing more than a feeling in his bones had quickly passed beyond raw witness to manifest haste. Not only was he being whisked through the castle on an urgent errand but it was, for him, to an unknown place.

  He’d never, in all his centuries, really had need to believe in a king, not really, not fleshed out as something living. Yet, here he was, being hurried to an audience with the very same, albeit unannounced. Most worryingly of all, it was as messenger of ill omen. In his bones he felt it to be an unwise move, despite Nephril’s assurances. No, even his friend’s blithe approach hadn’t wholly convinced him.

  If there really was a king then, surely, it would have call on an army, of some sort, hidden somewhere in the realm. All kings had armies after all. If not then to what purpose did Nephril herald such ill tidings?

  As the day’s light waned towards twilight, the buried passageways and tunnels they’d finally sunk into had become easier to tread than the open spaces. Despite few torches, they’d found freer footing in their increasingly tidier and cleaner ways.

  When they entered a particularly wide, well-lit and high vaulted passage, it appeared, to Falmeard’s naïve eyes, that they were approaching a hectic and busy part of the castle. He’d expected to have been challenged but it wasn’t to be and they’d simply carried on, quite unopposed, into a large antechamber ablaze with countless candles.

  The bright light and sickly odour of tallow brought Falmeard to a sudden halt where he then stared, wide-eyed. Great paintings hung there, between ornate cornices and pillars, along with a surprising number of massive mirrors. They reflected the torchlight back and forth across the chamber, increasing its brilliance many fold.

  It was clean and tidy, yes, but evidence of the passing of much time could still be seen. It showed in the faded colours, in the grey stains within the mirrors, the warts and wealds of missing plaster and the threadbare carpet beneath his feet. Carpet! Falmeard couldn’t believe his eyes, couldn’t remember the last time he’d stood on such but there it covered the entire floor.

  Nephril was about to pass from the chamber, on the far side, when he realised he’d lost Falmeard, turned and saw him standing there, dumbfounded. “Come, come! Make haste, mine friend, time be fast running out. Keep up, keep up. Get a grip of thine self, Falmeard. Let not this opulence cloud thy thinking. We have need to see the king, a most pressing need, indeed. Come! Hurry man!” With that, he’d wheeled about and was gone.

  Falmeard broke free and ran to catch up. Instead of coming to the king’s chambers, as he’d fully expected, he’d been utterly shocked to find even more such rooms, yet more corridors through which to hurry. The opulence and grandeur was beginning to convince Falmeard he must’ve been wrong, both about the king and the likelihood of his having an army, but a niggling doubt still clung on. Where were the court; the administrators, the courtiers and pages, the secretaries and masters at arms? Where was everyone?

  Nephril stopped before a great double door with the crest of the realm emblazoned above it. It was flanked by footstalls upon which stood effigies of the first king and his wife, the queen. They loomed above them, four times life-size and once richly painted, yet now sadly pale and flaking.

  Each door held a heavy knocker, one of which Nephril grasped, with both hands, and lifted with some effort. When he let it drop, it boomed out their presence. It made Falmeard jump and then quickly fix Nephril’s face for reassurance, a face set with confident determination.

  Nothing happened and then, sometime later, still nothing more happened. Nephril’s confidence seemed to take a bit of a knock and he shot Falmeard an impatient and puzzled look. Again, he raised the knocker and let it swing. “Your majesty, pray, ‘tis Nephril, Master of Ceremonies to the ancient kings of Dica. I do request urgent audience.” Still there was no answer, just the steady tick of a long case clock in the corner. Falmeard’s face now lit up with joy at having found a working one.

  Tentatively, Nephril then turned the great handle and pushed the door open, surprisingly easily, until it revealed within a golden chamber afire with countless candles, the ceiling coiling with their smoke. Every surface was burnished with gold, decorated with marble columns and pillars upon which, inlaid in silver, proud lettering proclaimed the majesty and magnificence of the house of Dica.

  The floor was tiled with ebony and marble, all laid in an intricate pattern around a central mosaic of the Living Green Stone Tree. An ochre serpent coiled about its bole and there, within its boughs, hung the eternal fruit that gave life and power to the realm.

  Its bold and ornate depiction reminded Falmeard of the startling scene in the great hall, brought to life the sight of the rearing white stallion. His arms were about to rise to his head when he remembered Dica’s proud emblem finally hovering in the blackness, the very same as was now before him on the floor.

  His eyes slowly came free and wandered about the chamber. There were many chairs and sofas, all upholstered in silk and boasting fine and intricate yet now well faded patterns. Along one wall ran a vast sideboard, awash wit
h goblets and glasses, bottles and flagons, and pewter platters littered, here and there, with great hunks of dry, stale bread.

  On the far side of the chamber, beyond the mosaic, rose a jet dais upon which was set the great throne. Great it was indeed, sided by ornate panels of fret-worked gold bearing a heavy lintel pelmet inlaid with pearls and emeralds. The whole was hung with satin and silk dossals gathered, at intervals, by silver loops. It enclosed the royal seats upon which rested richly-threaded but now entirely empty cushions. Within all that visual noise of object and ornamentation, and revealed in the glare of the many candles, there was but one solitary figure – the king.

  Sitting quietly and distantly, on the lowest tier of the dais, he rested a huge book on his knees and poured over it, closely tracing the lines with his finger. Although giving the appearance of a large and stout man it was, in fact, his many layers of robes and jackets that gave him his great bulk. Beneath it all resided a thin, gaunt and pallid figure with the long and hooked nose of a falcon. His eyes were somewhat bulged and bloodshot, his lips almost non-existent and pale, and his head covered in sparse wisps of white hair.

  Falmeard could only stare, unnoticed, at the king. Nephril, on the other hand, strode with more grace, elegance and poise than Falmeard had ever seen in him before. He purposefully approached the king and immediately sank to one knee before him, head bowed and eyes firmly on the ground. “Your majesty? I beseech thee, forgive me mine unheralded entry into thy presence, but I have grave and urgent news to impart.” Waiting the king’s pleasure, Nephril remained as still as stone, eyes unmoving and head still bowed, as the silence of the room slowly engulfed them.

  With increasing solidity, the king’s murmuring voice slowly became audible, although he neither looked up nor moved aught but eyes and finger upon book. “…and upon the Plain of the New Sun, before the great desert, four hundred hectares laid to wheat and a fourth share to the realm, and in specific a bushel for every ten to the royal household in perpetuity for all lands bequeathed and owned of the family Greymuster. Greymuster eh! Between the Eyeswin River and the Seasonal River, bounded upon the northern side by the Deadwold Road, and in the south… The equivalent of four hundred gold pieces! Do you hear that? Do you understand the implications for our coffers, well, do you? Such a match couldn’t be bettered. She may be as ugly as a warthog but she has the king’s vote, aye, that she has.” The king had at last moved, had lifted his head and shot Nephril an accusatory look. “Well? What think on’t?”

  It was plain Nephril was at a complete loss and, unsurprisingly, stumbled in his attempt to reply. However, he was only cut short by the king’s barked question, as he rapidly searched Nephril’s face. “Who did you say you were?”

  Nephril, slightly taken aback, stammered in a softer and kinder voice. “Nephril, mine Lord Namweed, Nephril, Master of Ceremonies to the old kings, citizen of Dica, faithful subject and servant of thine self, mine lord, King Namweed.”

  The king surveyed his face as though the light in the room were poor but then reached out an arm to grasp him gently by the shoulder. “Ah, ‘tis so, I see that now. And how fares thee, eh, my servant? How goes you?”

  Nephril looked decidedly unsure, and a little concerned, although somewhat relieved. He was also suffering pain in his bent knee. “My Liege, if I may be so bold as to ask a favour of thine unlimited benevolence and renowned kindness?”

  “By all means, my good fellow, ask away.”

  “If it would please mine lord, if it would be felt most proper by thy majesty, may I be so bold as to request, most humbly…” Pain spread plainly across his face. “…request that I may rise and stand before thy majesty, afore the pain in mine knee doth make of that proposition one most untenable?”

  The king looked blankly into his face, for a good few moments, then darted a look down at Nephril’s ancient knee, placed there on the cold marble tiles before him. King Namweed slammed his book shut and beamed. “Of course you may, of course, think no more of it, pray, rise before us. Stand proud and forthright, eh, straighten the old limbs and get some blood flowing back. Eh what! By all means.”

  “Thank thee, mine lord, thank thee most kindly.” Nephril began the excruciating business of getting to his feet.

  Falmeard couldn’t bear to see his old friend suffering and so hesitantly moved into the chamber. “Please, sir, if I may be allowed to assist my friend?”

  The king straightened, with a jolt, and stared at Falmeard. “And who the blazes are you?”

  Nephril came to his rescue. “Sire, may I … Ow! Pray do forgive me, mine lord, but this is mine old friend Falmeard, another of thy loyal and faithful servants, also a citizen of Dica.” By that point Nephril was almost standing, his leg still partially bent, weight on the good one and face etched with restrained pain. “If thy majesty would permit his entrance into thy esteemed presence then we may deliver to thee the important news, important and calamitous news, sire, that we have hurried to impart before thee?”

  The king, having risen to stand before Nephril, considered it for a good few moments, weighing Falmeard with suspicious eyes - with bloodshot suspicious eyes - whilst Nephril took the opportunity to coax blood back into his leg. “Very well,” the king began, “he looks trustworthy, he looks … Well, he looks … Looks as though he’s … If you see what I mean?”

  “I do, mine lord, I do.” Nephril reassured. “Mine Lord Namweed?” he began. “Today we have witnessed a most terrible and unprecedented event, one that hath very great import on thy majesty’s self and the whole of his realm.” He halted, awaiting the king’s response, but received only a mute and expectant stare.

  Nephril and Falmeard both looked a little awkward. “Today, mine liege,” Nephril continued, “towards late morning, we witnessed the arrival of a host of armed men. Some score they were, or perhaps more, as they marched along the Lost Northern Way. They came, we think, from the Forest of Belforas but we saw them march towards the village of … of … well, towards the northern walls of the castle, sire. They came in force enough, and with intent bent such, that before morning was out, more than an hundred of thy majesty’s loyal subjects lay dead. Men, women and children, sire! It was a most piteous sight and a great crime against thy majesty’s person and the realm.”

  The king remained mute and continued to look bemused, and a little lost. Keeping his eyes firmly on Nephril’s face, but with the odd quick dart at Falmeard, his head slowly swivelled towards an open doorway, partly hidden behind the great dais. It drew both their eyes the same way. What they then saw was a dark archway into an even darker passage.

  The king, however, slowly swivelled his head back to face them. Its expression hadn’t changed and, for a few more embarrassing moments, the three looked at each other in silence. His head again slowly swivelled to look towards the passage, again taking their own gazes with him. This time, however, the utter blackness of the passage beyond was not entirely unremitting.

  Something ever so slowly moved within it. A white stick-like hand then wrapped itself around the jamb with the fingers slowly drumming the frame. As if a spell had been broken, the king spoke clearly and rationally. “Ah, Laixac, come, come hither, assist your king. Come counsel his wisdom. Lend your skill and expertise to the matter.”

  From the passage came a figure that it would be kindest to describe as being well suited to that darkness, a wan wraith of a figure whose white skin contrasted starkly with the rich hue and lustre of its attire. His jerkin and cloak were of the colour of the deep blue that lingers in a sunset sky, above the sun-quenched horizon, and shimmered with a satin sheen It was also, somewhat garishly, stitched and laced with azure and hung with pearls.

  The breeches were of the blackest of black velvet, the stockings below of fine gossamer silver, and his blood red shoes elaborately laced with golden thread. Yet, extending from each appropriate opening were white bone-like limbs, the neck atop string-strung and holding aloft a pale and matt bald head, precariously but proudly erect. �
��My lord and liege.” His voice slithered out. “My purpose of life and light of mine eyes, I am here to be nothing if not of service to your most noble self, your magnificence.”

  Laixac sidled into the glare of the chamber, allowing the darkness of the passage to drip from him, and drew close to the king. He took his hand in his own skeletal paw, straightened with a bony jerk, bent elegantly, and then kissed the back of it. He held it for a while too long, it seemed, before returning it and smartly turning to confront them. “And who have we here, I wonder.” He shot the king a sideways glance. “How is it these two come hither, my liege? And upon what errand, I wonder. Peddling deceit and misinformation, I doubt not.”

  “They’ve brought us ill tidings, Laixac, news of an invasion…”

  “Ha! So, this is how they try to ingratiate themselves into the court, is it?”

  Nephril quickly protested. “The news we bring is the truth, mine lord, I swear upon it and offer mine very life as hostage to its veracity. We come to offer warning so Dica may prepare with all haste.”

  Laixac barked out a patently contrived laugh. “See, my lord, see how they threaten you. See how they come with their warnings. And what, pray, be the forfeit for disobedience?”

  “But, sire, we have not come with threats. We only wish to bring thy majesty urgent awareness of the plight of his kingdom. We do this in all humbleness and genuine service.”

  Nephril bowed low whilst Laixac harrumphed and turned to the king. “Perhaps we should discuss this a little further and plumb the depths of their sincerity, my liege? May I humbly suggest your majesty take up his proper place, upon the throne, so he may conduct a correct audience?”

  At that, the king’s expression lost its look of bemusement and took on a mixture of relief and childlike joy. He readily agreed, patted Laixac on the back and then rushed up the steps to sit on his throne. Laixac cast a frown at Nephril and then followed the king, with a spidery gait. He came to rest leaning against the arm of the throne where he reached behind to procure a crown. “Sire? Your sovereign symbol.”