Leiyatel's Embrace (Dica Series Book 1)

by Clive S. Johnson

  Once inside, Pettar gently placed Nephril on a couch. Falmeard then busied himself, under Nephril’s begrudging guidance, lighting candles and then preparing a hotchpotch of food from the eclectic collection in his larder. It wasn’t long before the room offered its welcoming embrace and was suffused with appetising smells, whilst outside the north wind steadily whipped up and whistled about the castle

  Whilst they ate they filled in Nephril’s missing hours and discussed what the day had brought. They didn’t get too far before tiredness began to overtake them, each sinking more comfortably into their chairs. As the wind howled yet more outside, the warm security of Nephril’s room brought silent introspection.

  After quite a while, it was Nephril who then mused aloud, “The nights all seem the same, aye, as peas in a pod, but all nights are different, in their own way. They often bode new things in old settings, things good but, it seems to me, usually bad.”

  By then he was absently staring into a candle’s flame, as though seeing some truth or other. “Today be ill-fated and wilt be sealed, I fear, by events beyond our ken.” When he realised he’d spoken aloud, he turned them an apologetic face only to find himself the only one awake.

  10 A History of Sorts

  The hound’s savage, bloodshot eyes burned into his own as slaver flew from its massive jaws, their teeth sinking deep into his neck, violently shaking his head from side to side. They filled him with a dread that lapped bloodily onto the shores of his mind from a wind-blown crimson lake. Then, a sudden squall blew in, a brief tempest lofting the sanguineous waters until they reared and broke upon his mind’s rugged cliffs, washing Falmeard to a marooned awakening as Nephril roughly shook him by the shoulders.

  “Wake up! Wake up, sleep ridden one. Lift thine mind to the day. Shake off thy foul dreams afore thou rouse the dead of Dica from their graves.”

  “What! But! Pray. Leave me in one piece will you. You’d fair shake me into next day.”

  “But ‘tis the morrow this very morning, although thou risk missing it in thy slumbersome torpor. Come on, sleepy-head, shake thy leg.” Nephril then went back to clearing up crockery whilst, at the same time, conjuring up a fine breakfast.

  Nephril seemed suspiciously full of energy. He threw himself into frying up eggs, bacon and sausages, and cutting huge chunks of rough bread. Falmeard, on the other hand, was groggy, as he shook off the last of the nightmare. He stretched, yawned and then wandered out into the pillared room to have a look at the morning, and there found Pettar on the terrace.

  “Good morrow to ya, Pettar.”

  Pettar turned his head and raised an eyebrow. “You look rough, as though you’ve not slept at all well. I have to say it, but you’re not a pretty sight.” Falmeard let out yet another long yawn and again stretched his arms. “It’s a fine view at this hour, don’t you think, Falmeard?”

  “It is indeed. I can well understand Nephril staying here so long. Imagine being able to drink that in every morning, eh? Fair takes the breath away and would certainly set you up for the day.”

  They both leaned against the parapet and let their eyes wander across the view, sharp through crystal clear air yet made as pastel in the thin dawn light. Falmeard sighed. “You’re fortunate you weren’t with us yesterday. We saw the march of the army from here. The memory spoils the enjoyment of the view now, though.” They fell silent for a little while longer, until Falmeard added, “I wonder where they’ve got to by now? The Eastern Gate I don’t wonder.”

  As the promising sounds and smells of Nephril’s preparations drifted out to them from his scullery, Pettar cast his eyes over to the north, to where the Lost Northern Way could be seen approaching the Ambec village. His eyes began to fill and he had to look away, out to the west where the sea still lay hidden beneath the retreating night-time canopy.

  He turned, gave a final glance to the east, up the great slope of the tiered terraces to the morning sun’s outstretching arms, and then faced Falmeard. “If the army be at the Eastern Gate, which it’s reasonable to assume, then we’ve still some respite. I know them to be locked and barred, and their strength to be great, enough to withstand assault for many days. But, Falmeard, what I’d dearly love to know is who they are. Where, in all this sleeping world, have they sprung from and why?”

  They were pleasantly interrupted by Nephril’s shout that their fast could now be broken. The table was set with platters of sizzling fare, attended by flagons of sweet mead, and they soon fell to it, bringing the room to silence but for the clatter of cutlery. Their attack eventually slackened, as their stomachs began to fill and talk slowly arose.

  Unsurprisingly, Falmeard was the first to speak. “You say we’re secure awhile, Pettar, behind the great gates, and I know the walls to be impregnable, even to machines of war, but surely we can’t forever hold out against an army? Not without actively defending ourselves.”

  Pettar swallowed, took a great quaff of mead, placed his tankard back on the table, wiped his mouth with his sleeve and then looked at Falmeard, thoughtfully. “I know the castle’s immensely large but I’m certain, in my own mind, it doesn’t hold any body of men that could remotely be described as an army. I can think of nowhere with enough people to furnish one, never mind the knowledge and skills needed. I’m certain that wit’s no longer held in aught but script on parchment.” He spread his arms almost apologetically. “After all, Dica’s not had need to practice the art of warfare in millennia.”

  Falmeard looked disappointed but then confused. “But last night you said you’d run into the king, that he and his aide were hurrying on some errand or other, concerning the invasion. What do you think they were up to then?”

  “I can’t for the life of me imagine, Falmeard. You’ve long been silent on the matter, Nephril. You know the king better than most, what do you think?”

  Nephril looked somewhat pained, his eyes downcast to the table top where he watched his fork spinning between the tip of his finger and the point of one of its tines. “’Tis a sad case, a sad, sad case in many ways. Yes, I have known the king, and his father, and his before him, and so on for many generations – too many, too many by far.”

  He seemed to drift off, his eyes unseeing, but they came back to life and fixed Pettar, his voice now far more certain. “The most noble of families, greatly gifted in the many ways of statesmanship, politic, arts and the philosophies. Aye, by dint of nature, of birth and marriage, the line hath been a strong one. It hath steered this great realm of ours by the most optimum of passages, hath gently yet firmly held the tiller true, and, in the practice, nurtured great wisdom and munificence. Alas, the ship hath sailed onto an ocean of faltering winds and, at last, been becalmed, but at great length, unto the doldrums. No wind hath rippled those still waters for many a generation now, and so the realm hast drifted through an ocean devoid of safe havens or harbours.” He leant back and seemed to drift off again.

  Falmeard was lost but started when Nephril continued, “What is the power of command if there be but no action worth the taking? Eh? What of captaincy when most of thine crew have jumped ship and those faithfully at their posts grow old and die?” Falmeard felt completely lost by now and studied Pettar’s face, in the hope of guidance. His eyes were cast down, though, as though he understood Nephril only too well.

  When Nephril carried on it was as though he were reading aloud to himself. “When the flame doth die, both light and heat are no longer thy companions, can no longer forge metal, cast artefact, cook thine meals, nor light thy path into the unknown.” His eyes drifted up to meet Falmeard’s from where they absently fell to the man’s hands, resting there on the table before him.

  His gaze hovered there awhile, about Falmeard’s dull ring, before returning to Pettar. “No man, however noble and wise, can sustain his belief through such a long dark night, and in the same way no line can achieve better. It must eventually succumb. It takes but a nick in the flesh for the rot to take hold, and King Namweed’s hurt hath been the greater. He
hath, after all, had to bear sad loss of his beloved queen and consort.”

  Nephril’s face lit up. “The lady was an exquisite jewel, thou know, and praised for her virtue and achievement, the more so when she was crowned Queen Solinda. Then, then she was loved all the more, and by all, yes, but beyond all by the king. So, he felt her loss the heavier and did fain get o’er it, but did slide slowly into his current distraction.”

  Falmeard was still very much at sea. “You mean his madness is recent? That he wasn’t always as when we met him yesterday?”

  Nephril winced and looked pained, making Falmeard regret his lack of tact. “Aye, what thou bluntly say be the raw truth of it, it doth no service to gainsay it with polite words, but the man we met then was far from the man I have known.”

  Nephril’s eyes softened. “Beneath his, as thou put it madness, there must still be the great rock of his intellect, his bravery, his astute and decisive focus that nurtured so much expectant hope at his crowning. He brought with him the glimmer of a possible new future, one that might reverse the long, long decline that hath robbed his realm of so much. I fear it hath been but a false hope, that the only chance of change hath been lost.”

  They were silent for quite a while, only broken by the sweet uprising of the dawn chorus, at odds with their sombre mood. Its significance impinged on Pettar and shook him to action. He sat up straight, hands on knees, and stared hard at them. “What are we thinking? Just look at the hour! We can’t afford to wallow in despair, my friends, there’s so much to do and so little time. We’ve far to travel today and must be up and to it.”

  He leapt to his feet and drank down the last dregs of his mead. “Come on, we can’t delay. We must thank you for the fine breakfast, Nephril, but I’m afraid the dishes will have to lay a wanting. Put together what little you can get by on for a few days.”

  The others sat stunned but it wasn’t long before they were rushing about, gathering their few things together. For Falmeard it was a short task and he it was who first stood waiting by the door, with Nephril and Pettar close behind.

  “Are we all ready then?” Pettar asked, receiving nods and, of course, Falmeard’s inevitable question.

  “So, where are we off to today, Pettar?”

  “Come! I’ll reveal all as we go, my friend.” Pettar led them back out into the dark passageway behind Nephril’s chambers, waited for the door to be closed and then quickly led them to the ginnel and the morning’s cold embrace.

  “We travel south, Falmeard, to a place I know well, a place that nurtured me from child to man.” As he spoke a dark cloud began to spread across his face as his jaw set firm. “I’ll openly admit to you both, it won’t be a home-coming, no, far from it. It would have been the best place for your recovery, Nephril, but even without your needing it now, a surprise in itself, I can think of no better place anyway. It still holds much of Dica’s knowledge, and the only person who might be able to unlock it to our gain. You see, I suspect the key to our future now lies not in knowing where that damned army is but who they are.”

  By then, they were well away from the ginnel, and its opening into the alley, and descending swiftly along the terrace’s torturous lanes. All the time, they dropped nearer the coastal wall that ran the length of the castle’s seaboard, where it perpetually rebutted the Sea of the Dead Sun’s waves.

  Known as Graywyse Defence, its full extent ran for more than forty miles along the western edge of the castle, some two hundred feet tall, fifty thick at its top and more than a hundred at its base where it was lapped by sea and sand. Built of the finest granite, mined high up in the Gray Mountains, it had stood the test of thousands of years of constant battering by the might of the sea. It looked still as sharp and pristine now as when its ancient builders had laid the last block.

  Along the top ran a fine road, set some way back from the battlements that topped the wall, and marked at intervals by square towers. The ancient Graywyse Defence Road cut an almost arrow-straight line a fair part of their way south, and they weren’t long in stepping onto it. The last of the terrace’s lanes had brought them to it through a dilapidated archway where they met a brisk breeze blowing in across the bleak and barren battlements, smelling so strongly of salt and seaweed, of ozone and cold moist air.

  The road was laid with stone setts into which two deep grooves had been worn, by the passage of innumerable carts and carriages, with long, pale brown grasses growing in their shelter. Butterflies and bees drowsily meandered, still coldly lethargic, in and out of the small, pale and paltry flowers that grew there. To the west, only a sea filled horizon could be seen, mirroring the top of the wall.

  Turning almost due south, the road ran away from them, unperturbed, with a diminishing march of towers beside, vanishing to mere specks in the distance. To their left and in the east, the castle rose dark and forbidding against the barely spreading sunlight. Tier upon tier, wall upon wall and tower upon tower, its detail was lost to its amorphous mass. It formed a thrusting and shadowy mountain of masonry, rearing high into the cloudless sky, encasing, like render, the true body of Mount Esnadac beneath. Long would it be before the sun could rise clear of it, could shine down on the road and so lift the cool shade in which they now walked.

  How it made the threat of the army seem so trivial, the castle’s sheer bulk apparently inviolable. It seemed to reinforce Pettar’s gut feel that nothing could really overpower its vastness, no army subdue even its postured and passive defence. Was that really so, though? Could even a small, determined and persistent force eventually break in, overwhelm and conquer. To be conquered! The very thought chilled his bones.

  The road’s level way made conversation that much easier and it was Falmeard’s seemingly persistent naivety that proved catalyst once more. “So, what’s the place you’re taking us to Pettar?”

  Pettar lifted his eyes from the smoothly worn setts and gazed to the east of the road’s apparent end. He was looking far off into the south, beyond the castle’s gentler rise, over its low-spreading south-western province.

  In his face, Falmeard again saw disquiet but waited patiently.

  “The place of my birth, oh inquisitive bird. The world that gave me form and substance but couldn’t satisfy my curiosity, nor understand or tolerate its alien nature.” He paused, but only for a short while. “You may have heard of the place, I know Nephril has.”

  Nephril just nodded.

  “The place is a tumble of strange and unusual buildings; bristling with thin spires, vast cloister-spanning roofs laced with road and path, and with courtyards beneath. There are domes and pyramids, barracks and offices, and, at its centre, a lonely place with a red lake. It’s all enclosed within a fortified wall, its only access by bridge over a broad moat, to a small gateway at its southwest.” Again, he paused awhile but Falmeard’s face remained vacant. “Where we’re bound to this very day, Falmeard, is the Land of the Guardian Priests, to Galgaverre as it’s more commonly known.”

  At that, Falmeard’s eyes lit up. He’d heard the name, of course, knew it well by repute, but like most people he’d never been there. He’d never even seen representation and certainly didn’t know it was from where Pettar had come.

  There was no more conversation for some time as Falmeard, the usual instigator, found his tongue well and truly tied. He really couldn’t get to grips with the idea of going to Galgaverre, that almost fabled place. He’d rarely come across it, even from the many inscriptions, rare documents and obscure tablets he’d unearthed. In contrast, both Pettar and Nephril appeared completely at ease, other than Pettar’s stern countenance.

  Eventually, tired of trying to leash his thoughts, he found his mind instead turning back to Pettar’s description. It brought him to a halt and, quite naturally, prompted yet another question. “Pettar?”

  A wry smile displaced Pettar’s stern countenance, as he drew to a halt and turned back to face him. “I know! I know! You’re about to ask me yet another of your interminable questions. Ver
y well, be quick about it. Ask away.”

  Falmeard looked a little sheepish. “I was just thinking. You know, of the spires and domes you mentioned, and the term Priests in its name, and … well … it made me wonder if it’s a place of … well … of religion. What I mean is, a place where beliefs and faith have survived.” His eyes were strangely brilliant and he gave a very good impression of an alert and expectant puppy.

  Nephril smiled, uncertainly. “And where hast thou turned up such exotic notions, I wonder. Where hast thou been digging to hath come across such terms, ones from a time before the long ago, almost before there was a history. Ha, but thee sometimes surprise me, Falmeard, take me aback thee do. I cannot believe that even thou hath uncovered such words, and thou art certainly far from being old enough to remember. So, come on, dear friend, from where hast thy question sprung?”

  Falmeard looked perplexed. He spread his hands slightly and then looked absently about, as though the answer could be found written upon the very landscape. “I … I don’t … don’t know.” Pettar and Nephril then turned to each other, with inquisitive wonder. “I’ve no memory of where they’ve come from, not that I can find. They were just there, in my mind. When Pettar said its name, the term Priest just, well, sort of, leapt out at me and conjured up a whole host of thoughts. I seemed to understand them without any real knowing. I’m sorry, but I can’t really explain.”

  As they stared at him, a little disconcerted, he seemed more and more as a lost child. “Well!” Pettar said. “Wherever you’ve found them, and that puzzles me in itself, you can take it there’s nothing of religion or faith in Galgaverre. There are no gods or demons held in awe by the Guardians, no more than anywhere else.” He looked even more closely at Falmeard, seeming to suspect something unseen.