by Damien Black
Even now Abrexta could feel her royal lover fighting her, an old sense of justice struggling to shrug her off. Intensifying her mindset she visualised a hand clutching a heart, another of the hieratic symbols of the Sorcerer’s Script she had memorised to perfection. As she did, she spoke her next command in the Language of Magick.
‘The King deems the fight unjustly won, and the King’s word is law,’ said Cadwy obediently. ‘Sir Mordàen, you are guilty of murdering a loyal subject, and the sentence is death. Throw him in the river.’
Mordàen’s cries of protest were drowned out by a ripple of applause as knights, ladies and other favourites dutifully showed their appreciation. Four heavy-set men-at-arms stepped forwards to carry out the sentence, disarming the drunken exhausted knight before dragging him over to a window overlooking the Rundle. Sir Mordàen gave a truncated scream as the serjeants cast him into the river, sinking without trace beneath the uncaring waters as pots and pans and armour dragged him down to a wet grave.
With a flourish Cadwy called for more wine and music. The sound of fiddle and drum and bagpipes filled the hall as minstrels struck up a lively tune. Abrexta felt a flush of pleasure – at least that was one thing the Palomedians with their One-God-In-Two hadn’t diminished: the musical tradition of her foremothers remained as strong as ever.
The witch felt a tugging at the fringes of her consciousness. The others were trying to break free, encouraged by her distraction with the King. That was always the danger with Enchantment – though her powers were second to none in Thraxia, even she had her limits. Focus too much attention on one thrall, and the others might strive to resist her will. Intensifying her mindset she pictured a wide net cast across many fish… and the minds under her spell returned to quiescence.
The King was drinking more wine at her unspoken suggestion, which would make him more easy to control: she would need him in pliant mood for the next phase of her plan. Abrexta was about to broach the subject when a commotion at the entrance caught her attention. She recognised the man: Sir Jalis of Brychon, a senior bannerman from Gaellentir. The knight was exchanging hot words with the serjeant-at-arms, who would not let him pass beneath the antlered lintel.
Lord Braun of Gaellen… the three lords of Dréuth could be counted on to make trouble, but Slànga Mac Bryon and Tíerchán Mac Thoth would take care of that problem in due course. Her apprentices served her interests there, hedge witches who had ingratiated themselves with both clan leaders. She had planned on using her Scrying to communicate with them later today – but now it looked as though one of Braun’s men was bringing her fresh news himself.
‘Let him pass,’ cried Cadwy across the revelry, following her suggestion. ‘I would have news of the north.’
Scrying was a drain on her elan – if she could avoid using any, all to the better. The day would come of course when her energies would be limitless. When Morwena’s Doom and the power to harness its forces was recovered, an army and more would march to her lightest whim.
Sir Jalis came huffing and puffing up the hall’s slanted approach – the Fays had spurned mortal symmetry in their designs – rudely elbowing aside the King’s toadies. Too stubborn by far to enthral and too old to seduce, the stocky knight was a problem she would fain be rid of. All in good time.
‘My greetings to the First Man of Clan Cierny,’ hollered Jalis, his protocol sounding at odds with the debauch unfolding around him. Serving wenches moved among the courtiers with trays of wine and sweetmeats, the more comely ones being groped by drunken knights. Others were cavorting manically to the insistent strains of music as retainers lit hanging fire baskets to ward against the coming chill of dusk. Though it was early summer, nights were still cold this far north.
That said, the Palace of Bending Branches afforded more warmth than any stone keep. Some put it down partly to the same magic that had warped living bough and bole into the hybrid like of rafter, gable and pillar; others put it down to the patchwork quilt of overlapping hangings that festooned the hall.
Her fay ancestors could claim no credit for that: the montage of dyed deerskins had been commissioned by King Bann, the first of his name, who had brought the ways of chivalry to Thraxia three centuries ago. A flaring brazier glanced across a nearby clutch of skins portraying the heroic Sir Tantris riding through the Bruinwood in pursuit of Antalix, the two-headed golden stag who had belonged to the Cloven-Hoofed God. Sir Tantris, as renowned for his singing and hunting as he had been for his skill with sword and spear, had ended his days begging the streets after King Bann had his eyes put out and banished him for seducing his wife Ylayne. The King hadn’t thought fit to put that ignoble deed on the deerskins lining his hall, Abrexta noted wryly.
Her attention was drawn sharply back to Jalis as he began to say something of interest.
‘Lord Tarneogh’s forces have been overrun,’ the knight was saying. ‘Last we heard the highlanders burned Daxor Keep to the ground and razed the town. The only survivors will be those taken as slaves. Our scouts report Tíerchán and the Death’s Head are already striking south-west – they mean to pin down Lord Cael at Varrogh while Slangà marches round the tip of Lake Halfrein and hits us from the south. They’re too many in numbers – for the umpteenth time, Your Majesty, send knights to help us! Dréuth is all but lost!’
If the courtiers nearby were alarmed by that, they gave no indication of it. But then that was exactly what Abrexta wanted – surround the King with the useless and incompetent, to make sure nothing deviated from her plan.
And according to her plan, Dréuth must fall.
‘I am sorry Sir Jalis,’ said Cadwy, echoing her suggestion. ‘I can give no thought to it – my bachelors have already been despatched down south. The lords of Tul Aeren are giving me trouble about the latest taxes.’ The King sounded as though he had conceded a trifling loss at dice.
‘Tul Aeren?!’ Jalis’ eyes bulged with disbelief. He was still kneeling. Cadwy had not bade him rise. ‘We’ve a highland uprising in the north – a few truculent barons can’t be a priority, you’re about to lose the northern reaches of the realm to pagan savages!’
A dancing courtier, the worse for drink, caught his foot on the forgotten corpse of Sir Aedàn. Arms flailing, he sent a tray of sweetmeats crashing to the floor as he fell. Laughter erupted from the nearby courtiers.
‘Nonsense,’ replied the King, laughing with the others. ‘The southerly reaches of the realm are richer and must be pacified first. Then I’ll see to it that reinforcements are sent north – if I deem Dréuth worth saving.’
That raised a few more sniggers. Abrexta had made sure whoever the King picked as favourites, northerners were not among them.
‘Worthy…!’ Sir Jalis rose, forgetting himself. ‘Do you think they’ll stop with Dréuth? Our lands sit directly north of yours – once Slangà and Tíerchán reunite over our corpses you’ll have an army of highland screamers banging down the walls of Ongist!’
‘Let them come,’ answered the King, his voice hardening. ‘They’ll find the knights of the First Clan more than a match for them, even if the so-called Lords of Dréuth aren’t man enough to beat them on their own. Now begone from my hall, before I have you horsewhipped for your impudence!’
Sir Jalis stared at the ensorcelled King, then shot Abrexta a venomous glance.
If looks could kill, she thought coolly.
She had half a mind to have Cadwy clap him in irons, but thought better of it – there was little to gain in sending the old knight to languish in the dungeons with others who had dared oppose her. She’d see to it that her highland allies disposed of him.
‘The King is tired, and grows weary of your heckling presence,’ she said imperiously, meeting Jalis’ eye. ‘You would do best to return to your homeland, and defend yourselves as best you can. We have more pressing matters at hand, as you can see.’ She indicated the debauch with an extravagant sweep of her arm.
Sir Jalis’ eyes bulged so much she thought they might pop out
of his fat head. He seemed about to say something but checked himself, instead managing a half bow before turning and stalking out of the hall.
‘Deftly handled my loving liege,’ she purred in his ear, allowing a white hand to drop to Cadwy’s thigh. ‘More a buffoon than a knight, that one – and you mustn’t trouble yourself with the north. You are right to focus on the south, and here – your personal demesnes that are the heart of the kingdom.’
She felt the King flush and stiffen with pleasure as she pressed herself closer to him, her raven tresses mingling with his own. She felt his crown of gold and emeralds, fashioned to resemble mythical beasts of the faerie time she so yearned to bring back; its cool surface felt good against her cheek. Though a woman she was as tall as Cadwy, a man of middling stature at best.
‘Yes,’ he mumbled, staring distractedly at his empty wine cup. ‘I have all I need here. We shall have a tourney to celebrate summer’s awakening in a fortnight, and I shall preside over much pageantry and merry-making.’
His voice was beginning to slur and he sounded like the knight he had just executed. The light from the baskets was offset by the thick smoke emitting from them. They were curious contraptions wrought of a metal that was strangely light, said to be a vestige of the forgotten artisanry the island folk had brought with them over the Tyrnian Straits, after the Wars of Kith and Kin an age of men ago.
The Island Realms… the next part of her plan hinged on the ancient land of her ancestors. All of her unnaturally long life she had yearned to see those shores, since Yathaga had told her of the druid clans and their primeval powers. She had learned those same powers at the feet of the old witch.
‘Your judicious taxes shall bring in much revenue,’ she said. ‘More than a tourney warrants. I had more ambitious plans in mind.’
Cadwy blinked, staring ahead blankly at the dancing courtiers. Several knights had already made their way to the side of the hall with serving wenches, and now clasped them in lusty embraces. The music set her heart racing – that, and the thought of her next venture.
‘Yes…’ murmured the King. ‘I had wondered what we were going to use the money for.’
Abrexta felt a slight resistance behind the words. She’d had little difficulty enchanting Cadwy when he had taken her to the Royal Cot; he had been a lonely and melancholy man, still mourning the loss of his wife three summers ago. But she had many more men enthralled now.
She mouthed more words in his ear, nibbling it as she pictured a hand clutching a heart. ‘Wonder no more, my loving liege – for I shall tell you! For too long now our harbours have but welcomed the cogs of other lands, contributing few of their own to the great seas that lash this blessed realm. Our ancestors were once great mariners, in days long gone when the Moon Goddess smiled on Curufin and Orbegon.’
Cadwy stirred. She could feel pride kindle in his breast. ‘You speak of the Exiled Clans, who founded this realm,’ he said, turning to look at her. His grey eyes had recovered a hint of their old keenness. She intensified the hieratic symbol in her mindset as she continued: ‘Aye, my loving liege, of that age I speak – and its like has never come since! Would you fain not look upon the return of such an epoch, under your reign?’
Cadwy nodded slowly, the keenness fading from his eyes as a misty look came over them. ‘Aye, my love, that I would… but how?’
He looked pathetic, so weak-minded and confused. She pressed: ‘Think not of these petty land wars – what is there in the rough hinterlands worth fighting for? I would have you reign over lands more fruitful – aye a very empire, one taken by sea!’
Cadwy looked at the floor. ‘By sea? Thraxia has not dared build a fleet since the War of the Cobian Succession.’
‘Yet our shipwrights have not forsaken their age-old craft.’
Cadwy shook his head. ‘Our craft falls far short of our ancestors’ – my uncle’s failure to defeat the Cobians bears testament to that.’
‘The ships were well constructed enough, ‘twas the admirals who were to blame! With the right leadership, a new Thraxian fleet would be a force to be reckoned with.’
‘And where would we find such men? My uncle banished his admiralty for their abject failure five years ago – we’ve had precious little new talent coming through the ranks since.’
‘Look south to your former foes, my loving liege. Cobia has a great maritime tradition, yet it is a small country with few opportunities – its mariners often seek service in the Mercadian navy. Give them a reason to look north.’
The King stared at her. ‘You’d have me commission a fleet, and crew it with Cobian sea captains? How much gold shall I need to persuade them to betray their own country?’
She felt like laughing in his face. Had this fool really reigned for more than two years before she enthralled him? Suppressing her mirth she met his eye. ‘I am not suggesting you commission a new fleet to attack Cobia,’ she said patiently. ‘I mean for you to send it west, across the Tyrnian Straits… the time has come to take back the lands our ancestors were so unjustly banished from two millennia ago. Conquer the Island Realms – and reunite the Westerling race!’
The King gawped. Not even Enchantment could hold back his initial misgivings. ‘Art thou mad? The Straits are haunted, the Islands themselves protected by ancient magicks! Some even say the Archangel Kaia still visits their shores to speak by moonlight with the druid caste!’
She could feel his fear, but underneath that she sensed another powerful emotion: the innate lust for power that all kings felt. Channelling her mindset she pictured a roaring lion rearing over a huddled figure, superimposed above the fish and hook symbol.
Even as Abrexta spoke she knew she had him.
‘Let me worry about the ghosts and the druids, my loving liege. Raise the taxes. Commission the fleet. Solicit the Cobians. For too long have we lived in the shadow of our neighbours – Thraxia’s time has come.’
Favouring the King with a last lingering kiss, she pulled away and drained her goblet. She felt the blood of her fay ancestors pounding in her temples as the wild music strained against the gnarled ceiling. All about them the courtiers swirled, dancing to the tune she had set.
CHAPTER IV
The Burned Witch’s Lair
For the third night running Adhelina awoke in a cold sweat, breathing heavily as she calmed herself and struggled to remember her dreams.
The pale-faced figures had returned to haunt her sleep again, their lipless mouths cracked open in silent yowls as they reached for her with two-fingered hands. That part was always the same, lumpen forms hunched over them in the moonlight as they cowered together. This time it was Anupe who was first to fall, swallowed up by the ogrish fiends as they devoured her silently… There was never any sound.
Feeling the sweat trickle down her back the heiress of Dulsinor pressed both hands tightly to her temples. She closed her eyes and remembered.
She had seen other things too – this time it had been a party of knights being swallowed up by a surging forest whose branches and roots moved… then a great castle, a white flag hanging limply from its battlements… The scene had shifted again, and she had been as a bird, flying high above the lands of the earth, a range of mountain peaks to the west… another forest… to its north another party of knights carrying a chequered banner, then directly below her to the south three slightly smaller figures riding. Behind them another group of mounted warriors rode in hot pursuit, a bright banner streaming in the wind like hot tongues of flame… The scene had shifted again and she and Hettie had been back in the clearing, watching Anupe get torn apart by the horrible white monsters…
The sound of coughing drew her attention back to the waking world. Hettie lay curled up on her makeshift cot next to her, shivering beneath the fur skin that served as a rude blanket. She was moaning softly in her sleep. Was she having strange dreams too, Adhelina wondered?
She pressed a white hand gently to her oldest friend’s forehead. It felt damp and clammy. The simple she
had placed in a pomander around her neck was a day old; she would need to make a new one. She was nearly out of St Clepticus’ Weed; she had some Tincture of Launacum she could use instead, but it wasn’t as effective against the Sweating Sickness…
Hettie stirred. Her fever had not yet broken, but it wasn’t as bad as it had been the previous week. That was something to be grateful for. She was eighteen summers but the Sweating Sickness had been known to kill others as young and strong as her. Reaching into her medicine pouch Adhelina began to prepare the last of the weed, silently praying it would be enough to break her fever.
She shivered in the damp. Their resting place was hardly the best for a sick patient, but what choice had they had? Two days after the fight with the brigands Hettie had taken poorly, and out in the wilderness of Dulsinor they had been lucky to find the hollow where the burned crone lived. A series of low caves set deep into a hillside covered with tumbleweed and briars, at least it was well concealed. They were just half a day’s ride from the main road connecting Meerborg to the Argael and could have made it to the nearest inn, but it seemed like too much of a risk to take. Two damsels, one of them sickly, and a foreign freesword would attract too much attention; by now Balthor and his men would be in the Free City, putting the word around. They could not take the risk that someone might see them and realise who they were…
Adhelina bit her lip fretfully as she doused the Clepticus’ Weed in a little water from her gourd and refilled the pomander. The pungent smell of the herb rose gently as she wrapped it anew and tied it gently around her lady-in-waiting’s neck. They had been here a tenday now, and she had not felt much safer than she would have done at a roadside inn.
True, the burned crone seemed to want little to do with the wider world, and had taken them in without much fuss. Perhaps she was lonely and grateful for the company. But there was something unnatural about her; the glint in her eyes as she looked at them beneath disfigured eyelids made Adhelina feel uneasy.