Leiyatel's Embrace (Dica Series Book 1)

by Clive S. Johnson

  Laixac’s eyes brightened. “It does indeed, my Lord.”

  “Let’s hope they remember to knock first, eh, Laixac? Assuming they do, I suggest you make ready to grant them entry.” Laixac sprang to his feet, moved to the side of the door and there waited, his hand hovering over the doorknob. The king continued to read as he reclined on the sofa.

  The clattering ceased in dribs and drabs before a short silence preceded a gentle yet firm knock at the door. Laixac was about to snatch it open when Namweed stopped him, with an urgent whisper. “Tarry a few moments, man! Don’t be so quick to present an impression of keen anxiety. Let them wait awhile.”

  So, Laixac waited, hand on knob and breath held close, whilst the king read another paragraph before finally nodding. Laixac let out a long sigh and began to open the door, solemnly.

  Jammed in the narrow passageway was a gaggle of dimly lit figures, their heads only just visible and rocking from side to side, as they tried to see past those in front. They were all silent and respectful as the leading figure, the only one with proper sight of the king, coughed in a dignified manner.

  A man’s voice passed through the doorway. “My Lord and Liege, we come in haste upon your Royal Command. We trust to find your person in rude health, sire, and desireth of our audience and counsel.” The man bowed low, his backside pushing the person behind back into those following before they too shuffled their own positions. Eventually, after much subdued grumbling and complaint, all were likewise able to bow low, and there they remained, awaiting the king’s pleasure.

  At length, Namweed marked his place in the book, closed it with a slam and carefully and deliberately placed it on the table at his side. He rose and flicked stale breadcrumbs from his pantaloons before straightening and arching his back, one leg before the other, left hand placed lightly on his hip and right outstretched in royal welcome.

  “Our dear and valued Lord Que’Devit, what a pleasure it is to see you again. Do come in, please, attend us.” The king swung his right arm behind him and made a short nod from the shoulder before returning to his welcome stance. The passageway gave a brief murmur of relieved approval before Que’Devit replied, “Your Majesty, the pleasure is all mine, I do assure you.” He entered in, before yielding another short bow, and took up his position to the right of the king.

  Another figure loomed out of the darkened passage, with their own introduction and floor-scraping bow. This time it was Countess Ragskin. “Ah, my good Countess, we do receive you with sincere pleasure, oh, and our heartfelt gratitude for your part in assisting Laixac here. You’ve done our person great service by it.” This time he bowed his welcome from the waist, as a sign of true gratitude.

  The next in line was Baron Stormangal, his bulky frame only just squeezing through the doorway, then Lady Lambsplitter with her close friend and oft ally Lord Lainsward followed by Chiffenger Basjob and, finally, the diminutive stick, Progman Brakefever. They’d all steadily pressed themselves to the king’s right hand.

  With the formalities over, Namweed would normally have begun relaxed conversation but their close confines meant no one could actually move, not without jostling their neighbours. Obviously, something had to be done, and quickly. “Err, our Lords and Ladies of the Court, we think, perhaps, we would all be better accommodated in the gatehouse salon, so, if you’d follow Laixac, our Aide, he’ll guide you there now.”

  He watched his Council drain from his apartments and mentally kicked himself. ‘Oh dear!’ He chided. ‘Now, why didn’t I think of that before? Best brazened out, I suppose.’ He then followed on, after a suitable delay of course.

  When he got to the salon, his dismay was further heightened when he saw how dusty and dishevelled it was; its long oak table scattered with fragments of ceiling plaster and bird droppings, the sills rife with mould, fungus and more bird droppings and those chairs not broken or smashed lying scattered in disarray about the room. The only thing it had going for it was its size, easily swallowing their party whilst at the same time looking completely abandoned. His lords and ladies were trying their best to look unaffected but, in his own eyes, failing abysmally.

  It was Laixac who was to come to his rescue, who’d seen the king’s alarm as he’d entered. Laixac loudly addressed the king in a somewhat theatrical fashion. “My Lord and Liege? Please forgive me my remiss, but I have only just been able to open up this room and was unaware of its parlous state. I am ashamed to have to admit that I mislead you, earlier, when you did order me to make it ready, for I believed it unlocked and recently swept … err … and cleaned.”

  “Oh dear, Laixac! Well, there’s not much we can do about it now … err … but take our displeasure as reprimand. We shall all just have to make the best of it, as best we can, after all, the situation’s somewhat less than normal … and very grave, of course.”

  He took in their rather bemused looks and their disgust at the squalid surroundings. “Lords and Ladies of our chosen Council, may we again thank you for your speedy arrival. We’ve much to discuss and we’re keen to hear your counsel, to listen to your advice, so we suggest starting by … err…”

  Laixac once again jumped into the breach. “Sire, if I may be so bold as to suggest that I bring refreshment for your Council, whilst you further your business with them, of course?” The king looked relieved. “Err, thank you, Laixac, yes, yes you may, and … and do so, yes, thank you. Oh, and when you’ve finished that, you can then start getting this place a bit cleaner, eh?” Laixac’s heart sank.

  Baron Stormangal was the first to pull himself clear and, in his brutal and phlegmatic manner, bolstered the king’s spirits no end. “Mi Lord, seems to me the conditions here are but a minor inconvenience set against the alarming news that brings us together. I’m keen to know your own thoughts, sire, for I fear our minds may well have been badly coloured by unfounded rumour – I mean, the stuffs flying about like whore’s drawers.”

  A forced cough brought the Baron up short. “Oh, err, begging yer pardon, Lady Lambsplitter, but it’s the plain truth o’ the matter – although I could’ve put it a bit more delicate, I suppose.”

  Namweed beamed at the Baron, and struck him amiably on the arm. “Just the mettle we need now, Stormangal, just the attitude, eh, and we’re sure we can all forgive you your choice of metaphor. Take lead from the good Baron and spoil not the argument for want of clear diction, eh?”

  Most of them looked unconvinced, even as they all agreed, but the floodgates had clearly been breached. The tumult erupted as Lord Que’Devit pushed his way through the noisy assembly to the king.

  “Your Majesty, if I may be so bold as to enquire?” he loudly requested, against the competing voices, and then paused, awaiting the king’s indulgence. The Council went very quiet and listened, keenly.

  “Pray, don’t stand on ceremony. Let your queries flow un-stymied, after all, the matter at hand is most serious. Please, my Lord, what is your particular enquiry?”

  Que’Devit looked a little embarrassed. “Err, well, actually, I was only wondering where we could tend to our toilet?”

  “The … Oh, err, well, now, let’s see.”

  Fortunately, Laixac returned at that very moment with a tray of glasses, some food and quite a few bottles of wine. Namweed was then able to send poor Que’Devit with him to be shown, what he was sure would turn out to be a derelict and wholly unsatisfactory water closet.

  He was beginning to fear losing sight of their purpose when Countess Ragskin’s forceful voice cut across them all. “Sire? We’ve heard the summary of events from your faithful servant Laixac, but I’d be keen to hear it again from your own lips, and with your own understanding and reasoning behind it.”

  Relieved that things appeared to be back on course, Namweed felt his doubts returning to plague him. Should he raise them early and thereby risk devaluing his summons? They’d not be at all happy to think they’d been dragged all that way, and in such haste, for nothing. He finally decided to keep his doubts to himself, a
t least until he’d tested the water.

  He coughed, stared about the room but came back to the Countess’s questioning face. He coughed again, unsure of where to begin, but noticed their eyes starting to show concern, one that strengthened the longer he delayed. They almost seemed to be holding their breaths, as though in expectation of something. He was going to cough again but then thought better of it. Instead, he smiled, which only seemed to make matters worse.

  As soon as he began speaking, though, and despite his rambling words, their faces quickly relaxed and almost looked overjoyed. All he’d actually done was retell the little Laixac had already passed on. He couldn’t quite understand why they looked so relieved. It was most strange, not normal at all. No, not at all ‘normal’. Fortunately, he noticed Baron Stormangal eyeing the food Laixac had laid out.

  Had he not then granted them leave to help themselves he might have seen just how unconvinced they’d been by his words. As it was, their thirst and hunger quickly displaced doubting looks and they were soon nibbling and quaffing, mainly provisions they’d brought with them but certainly of the king’s fine cellar.

  When, sometime later and with private discussions filling the room, Namweed got to his feet and rapped on the table, the hubbub only slowly died away. “Well, as there appears to be no further questions.” There hadn’t actually been a one by then. “I’ll lay before you our proposed course of action.”

  That certainly got him silence at last, only punctuated by Laixac’s prosaic clattering as he began cleaning up. Namweed tried to ignore the distraction. “If we’re to believe in this threat.” ‘Damn,’ he thought. ‘Already let it slip!’ “Then, it would be fair to say, we’re in the best place from where to assess its strength and glean something of its intentions.” He tried to read their faces but failed, completely.”

  The expected silence rushed in at him but then Chiffenger Basjob rose, stepped nearer the king and turned to the Council. Namweed fervently hoped he didn’t also need the toilet.

  “I would like to say that I assess the situation as being, potentially, one of latent peril and, as such, irrespective of the likelihood of this alien force being believable, or otherwise, as His Majesty puts it, I would consider it prudent of our Council to attach a high degree of importance to it and, furthermore, that this degree of importance be such that the incident be treated as, de facto, real, and we therefore organise our actions accordingly.” Having made his point, he returned to his place, unaware of the complete mystification he’d wrought, all excepting Progman Brakefever, of course, who simply nodded, sagely.

  As Namweed was wishing Basjob had indeed only needed the toilet, Countess Ragskin found she could no longer hold her tongue. “The matter’s simplicity itself, if you’d but use your brains for what they’re intended, and that’s for thinking, eh?”

  That roused Lord Lainsward. “I say! That’s a bit rich isn’t it, I mean, we all, in our own ways, have fine minds, I’m sure, but the one thing none of us has ever had cause to use them for is warfare! What d’ya expect of us, eh, Ragskin? What?”

  “Now look here, Lainsward, none of us may’ve experienced much more than domestic strife, but it doesn’t mean to say we can’t turn our minds intelligently to any matter. Well? Does it?”

  Lainsward backed down, recognising superior force when he saw it, but it was Lady Lambsplitter who then rose to the challenge. “But surely we’re safe within the walls of the castle, aren’t we? Can anybody here countenance an army tearing them down and taking us by sheer force alone?” She looked from one to the next. “Well, can you?” Again, no comment. “So, it would seem to me that we’re in a very strong position, and can just cock a snoot at them for all they could do in return. Well? Am I wrong, or is there something I’m missing in my ignorance?”

  By then, Laixac had managed to clean up enough chairs for the Council to be seated and enough table top for them to be seated at. Gratefully, they gingerly sat down, pulled their chairs up to the table and variously slouched, leant or stuck their feet upon it, having first spread their food and drink before them.

  Feeling the Council now more formally gathered, the king said, “Very well, it seems to us that Lady Lambsplitter’s put her finger on an important point. We should indeed be impregnable within the castle. Does anybody know of any fact or argument against such a proposition?”

  Baron Stormangal propped his elbow on the table, rested his head against his hand, as he poked biscuit crumbs from his teeth, and then opined, “Sounds more than reasonable to me. Can’t think of owt to dash it down. Well, not unless…” The others turned him their attention. “Well … Well, what if this army had a weapon powerful enough to bring even our great walls crashing down, eh? We don’t know they haven’t got such a thing, now do we?” Their faces flashed from nonchalance to anxiety, each harbouring dark thoughts of demise and disgrace, each in their own way.

  It was at that point that Laixac decided to withdraw, quietly. He’d had enough of his household chores, and what seemed to be a clear case of the Council going nowhere very fast. He fancied partaking of a little of the same wine as was now being amply quaffed about the table.

  He made his way from the salon to the king’s apartments, where he prised yet another bottle of a fine and heavy red from its dusty and encrusted scullery rack. With it firmly in hand, he returned, past the salon, and up a flight of steps that took him out onto the gatehouse battlements.

  They quickly led him up a further flight and onto the northern arm, along which he sped towards its sentinel tower. There, he knew its thick lead roof would soon furnish a warm enough couch and from where he could drink in, as he would the wine, the awe-inspiring view of the castle.

  By the time he’d reached the tower, the morning was gathering to itself a grey and threatening sky, but the air at least felt dry. He settled on the tower’s gently sloping roof and propped himself against the turret wall, to be in the wind’s lea. He looked up, content and relaxed, and watched the ravens circling high above.

  The wine was soon liberated, and a wedge of stale bread in hand, before he looked out to the west. It took his eyes back along the northern arm to the gatehouse, its muck-mired mullion windows obscuring the ineffectual Council within. Far beyond the gate rose the jutting fingers of the Towers of the Four Seasons, each dully reflecting their own quarterly colour. The Winter Tower was the most prominent, its white marble stark against the blackness of the castle’s rise, with the Spring Tower the least, its once bright viridian mantle now dulled almost black with age.

  What was plainly in view was the Great Wall, it northward march from the gate leading his eye to a glimpse of the Vale of Plenty beyond the wall’s sudden turn west. Across the vale’s flat spread, he could make out a short section of the old road to the north. Almost arrow straight, the Lost Northern Way ran to the forest’s edge, its dense press of trees impenetrably rising to the Strawbac Hills beyond.

  Hidden now by the lowering sky, far beyond those hills, the impassable Gray Mountains ran a wall across the northern view. Their tops were forever encased in snow and ice, great glaciers filling their valleys and blizzards forever playing about their heads.

  It seemed impossible an army could have come that way, over the mountain range, down through the forest and out on the Lost Northern Way. If not, then where did they come from? It just didn’t make sense, none of it, and it certainly didn’t help that more than half his bottle was already empty. Time had somehow managed to slip by unnoticed and, despite the wine’s warming and numbing effect, his back was at last getting cold.

  He pushed himself unsteadily to his feet and leant against the turret wall, its bulk shielding him from the cooling easterly wind. He groaned, as he closed his eyes and then stretched out his arms, bottle in hand. Turning stiffly, he staggered around the turret, eyes still closed, and faced east, feeling the cooling wind’s tonic on his face.

  He knew he’d have to get back soon, that despite no doubt being submerged in their ineffectual argume
nts he’d be wanted for something by now. ‘Well, a pleasant interlude, certainly, but all good things come to an end.’ He took one last deep breath of the sweet air, blown in from across the Eyeswin Vale, and opened his eyes.

  Even the day’s grey light blinded him, left only the blurred outlines of turret and roof. As his eyes adjusted, and brought all into sharp relief, he quickly sobered.

  Amassed below, stretching across Eastern Walk and away towards the Eyeswin Bridge, the serried ranks of an army spread out before his startled eyes. He gulped, stretched his eyes even wider and then heard the smash of a bottle at his feet.

  17 Awakenings

  There was a gentle, almost inaudible humming heard more by the body than the ears, and it seemed to emanate from everywhere at once but come from nowhere in particular. Not a recognisable note, you understand, nor a suggested action, and all the time seeming to hover illusively in the very air about Falmeard’s groggy head.

  There was also a light shining through his closed lids, the same light he remembered from the previous night, before the long tiring day had taken him deep into the folds of sleep. The light was the same because it came from the same sources and into the same windowless room. The hum, though, well, that was only new in that it now had no competition in the early morning stillness.

  Falmeard couldn’t bring himself to force his eyelids open for he was far too snug, ensconced in unfamiliar luxury; a soft mattress, a clean and densely woven blanket, a feather pillow – what more could one ask for in life? He couldn’t tell what hour it was, either, nor greatly cared if truth be told. The previous day’s long exertions and confusing discourse had put him into the deepest of slumbers he could ever remember, one he really didn’t want to spoil.