by Andy Roberts
A hollow knock that was loud and insistent came at the front door and had all inside the inn check the place over with a final critical eye. Satisfied they’d left no trace of the killings, Griff called for Brae to open up forthwith.
Two or three of the regulars waited outside, Girl thankfully not amongst them. They each complained in turn, asking a barrage of questions as they crossed the threshold.
‘Tipped a barrel of cookin’ oil, is all,’ Brae said thinking quickly. ‘Leaves a right smell, so it does.’ One of the men gave him a playful clip round the ear, while another laboured the point about how he should take more care next time.
‘Floor’s still slippery,’ Pew warned pointing to an area in front of the hearth. He stood side-on to the customers, doing his best to hide the fan of red spots on his otherwise white shirt. Brae moved behind him and took the bucket away before the men could busy themselves further. He pushed through the swing-door to the kitchen and came to an abrupt halt. Molly stood next to the butcher-block countertop, quartering a young hog with a razor-sharp cleaver and an unnecessary level of enthusiasm. The blade rose and fell in a blur, Molly unaware of his presence, such was her focus on the task at hand. Brae passed without speaking, reached the back door unchallenged and only then dared to release his breath.
He didn’t hear the voices at first, the swishing of bloodied water on dirty gravel hiding them from him. They used his name repeatedly, calling like parents searching for a lost child. A sudden wind shoved at his back, insisting that he move away from the safety of the inn and enter the darkness of the woods to its rear. He held the empty bucket as though it were part of him and did the wind’s bidding. He stepped out of sight, left his family behind, let the weightless hand push him towards the source of the calling voices.
The wood was thick and gloomy, smelling of sweet pine sap and damp, rotting foliage—the paradox, a refusal by the environment to reveal its true intentions. Brae’s heart pounded in his chest, but still, he went deeper. The firs thickened, their needle-like teeth biting at his hands and face, providing the first indication that the wood’s allegiance did not lie with the smithy’s apprentice. When at last he broke into the open, his eyes were drawn to the middle-distance and the fires that spawned a troupe of dancers dressed in robes cut from orange silk. They rose from the floor, from the flame, some making off into the night sky, while others stopped to dance for their master. They were wind-riders, he knew—had seen them in his dreams—creatures loyal to the Dragon Lord. Several stood on the lintel-stones, moving to the command of the beating drum as though intoxicated by a powerful and illicit substance.
At the centre of the spectacle, a giant figure of a man stood tethered by heavy chains that rose from a belt fixed around his waist to a high and distant point in the night sky. The figure paced and beat at the pulsing air with a pair of human thigh bones. Brae tried to drop the bucket and flee, but it clung to him as though it were alive, holding him captive, insisting that he stay and watch. The figure stopped drumming and let its head tilt to one side, a thick mane of blue-streaked hair stuck to the sweat and oils of its face and muscular upper body. It discarded the bespoke drumsticks and swung its chains in a violent elliptical motion, as though inviting the Gods to join it in a grim game of skip-rope.
Several wind-riders approached, Brae not noticing them until it was almost too late, his attention taken by the huge wings unfurling on the back of the captive. He blinked and screwed his eyes tight shut—opened them again and found himself confronted by the same awful image. The wind-riders closed, made their way towards him, their faces featureless smudges of neutral colour. He turned and tried to run, but still the bucket refused to let him leave. He put his foot on it and pulled with all his might; smashed the thing against the trunk of the nearest tree when all else failed. Fingers clawed at him, hands pulling him ever closer to the waiting Dragon Lord. Brae pushed at the wind-riders and found that his hands cut through them as though they were composed of nothing more solid than a fine mist. ‘Leave me alone,’ he screamed. ‘Leave me alone.’
‘Brae.’
‘Get away from me.’
The voices kept calling: disturbing him still. ‘Brae.’ Something slapped at his face. He swung an arm and tried to sit up. The wind-riders held him down and kept him there so that the advancing Dragon Lord could kill him. He forced his eyes open, refused to die a coward, and so shook himself awake. ‘Brae.’ The voice was calmer now, the grip on his shoulders less firm. ‘You’re safe, so you are.’
‘Griff?’ He was no longer in the wood and the wind-riders were nowhere to be seen. It was his family who stood around him, concern and confusion etched on their faces in equal measure. ‘What happened to me?’
‘Tamulan found you wanderin’ near the stones,’ Pew said helping him to his feet. ‘What were you doin’ there?’
Brae shrugged. ‘Why would I be at the stones?’
‘Were you takin’ resin, boy?’ Griff demanded to know.
‘Tried it once, is all,’ the teenager said, angry at the suggestion. ‘Made a promise, so I did.’
‘And I meant what I said about the leather strap.’ Griff leaned on the pad of his crutch like a shepherd might a crook and ran his fingers through his beard.
‘I didn’t take resin. Someone called to me from the woods.’ Brae turned the cold water tap and held his cupped hands beneath the flow of water. He took a drink and splashed the remainder against his face. ‘Wind-riders took me to the Dragon Lord, so they did.’ Griff had heard enough and put a hand to his belt buckle. ‘It’s true.’ Brae stepped behind the druid, moving like a cornered crab as his brother came after him.
Tamulan caught Griff’s wrist and held it tight and still. ‘Leave him.’ His voice had lost its spoonful of syrup and was edged instead with the sharpness of bitter lemons.
Griff pulled and tried to free himself but couldn’t. ‘High on resin, so he is. Family business has nothin’ to do with you.’ The druid let go only when he was ready, leaving Griff to nurse his hand and scowl.
Tamulan took Brae by the chin and turned his head left and right. ‘He’s taken no resin,’ he said with an assertive tone. ‘The windows of his eyes move with the light and dark of the room.’ Griff leaned close and saw that it was true. Pew checked also and nodded. Tamulan came forwards, not stopping until he was only inches away. ‘Remember innkeeper, that when it comes to the Dragon Lord, everything is my business.’
Chapter
— 5 —
Vaspar Gendrick rode from the front as always, flanked by his bodyguards Snake and Tyne-Sly. A half-dozen sour looking hirelings brought up the rear, dressed in black and ready for no good. The loud pounding of shod hooves on the wooden drawbridge rumbled through Parondor Keep like a volley of cannon-fire, the overgrown lawns alive with the movement of fleeing geese. The Minister for Punishment kicked his heels and Obsidian lengthened his stride on the loose, gravel track.
The rock face sped past just an arm’s distance away, and to their left, the unsurvivable drop to Dragon Valley awaited anyone lacking impeccable horsemanship skills. There was only one route in and out of the cliff-top keep—and this was it.
From a secluded ledge high above the path, the darkest of shadows sat and watched the riders race down the mountainside and gallop out into the valley below. It had done well—finding the boy had been pure happenstance—but it had then worked hard to track the dragonoph and dream-keeper. Its master would surely welcome it back as reward for its show of loyalty. ‘Soon,’ it whispered and slid from its lofty perch to mingle with the contours left by passing clouds.
‘Not a single one,’ Gendrick grumbled as they picked their way through the barren valley named after the fiery creatures that had once ruled there. The landscape was charred and little more than a centuries-old forest of twisted, igneous rock.
‘They’ll be back.’ Snake leaned in his saddle and grinned without hint of warmth or humour.
‘When?’ Sly had a burr to his voice th
at made even the briefest things he said sound annoying. Gendrick did his best to ignore him, all the while fighting the urge to plunge a knife deep into the man’s neck and watch him wriggle and bleed like a slaughtered lamb. But Sly was ruthless, efficient and the second best bodyguard the minister had ever had, and for that reason alone, he would for now at least, keep his life.
‘Soon enough.’ Gendrick gave him that only, interrupted by Snake drawing his attention to a vehicle on the road ahead. Like them, it appeared to be heading towards the City of Randor; unlike the other road users, it failed to follow protocol and give way to the minister at the junction-fork.
‘You there,’ Sly called as the waggon trundled past. He reached for his baselard when it continued on its way, creaking like an old man’s knees.
‘Not today,’ Gendrick warned. He pulled his wolf-skin robe tight to his shoulders, better insulating himself against a chill that settled upon him like the breath of the dead. ‘We’ve business in the city.’
Griff used his foot to steady the rolling fire-lance. ‘Came close, so I did.’ He sat and watched the riders gallop off into the distance, people hurrying out of the road, clearing the way in all directions. ‘No respect for anyone.’ He shook his head and slapped the reins.
Brae crawled from beneath the tarpaulin, his hair standing up on end. ‘That was Vaspar Gendrick’s voice,’ he said patting it flattish with a few fingers and some spit. He grabbed at the low side of the waggon and steadied himself. ‘You can’t just shoot the minister.’
‘Showin’ I don’t fear him is all,’ Griff said. ‘A bad apple, so he is.’ On the road were several bad apples, spilt by a farmer who’d swerved to get out of the minister’s way. The innkeeper chose one and squashed it flat.
‘They’ve every right to fear him.’ Brae leaned over the front of the waggon, head wedged between his brother and the druid. ‘Even Chancellor Gelfroy knows he’s up to no good, I’ve heard him say as much.’
‘I swear they’ll hang you,’ Griff said with a deep frown. ‘Politicians keep dirtier secrets than the back-streets of Randor—only whores don’t kill to keep it that way.’
‘They won’t kill me for overhearin’ their loose talk.’
‘Not themselves maybe,’ Griff conceded. ‘But for a couple of flannin’s, there’s plenty a rogue who’d slit your throat on their behalf.’
Brae sat quietly and fingered his neck.
Just as a mountain stream becomes a river, and that in turn an estuary emptying into the great ocean, so the road widened as they neared the city. The hilly landscape gave way to flat and fertile fields, villagers toiling in the distance, coloured dots harvesting the last of the year’s offerings. Cob-walled cottages formed the mainstay of the rural dwellings, women moving in and out, carrying pots and rounding up grubby looking children.
Sly looked upon them with ill-disguised contempt as he rode by and spat at an old lady, stooped on a crooked walking cane. The woman took a stone from the road and hurled it at him. She’d seen enough winters, one more didn’t matter in her eyes. The stone caught the bodyguard’s shoulder and bounced off without doing him harm. Sly drew his blade, yet the old lady held his stare, refusing to look away for even a second.
Gendrick belly-laughed. ‘Woman, you have bigger balls than your men-folk.’ He watched the silent crowd, daring any of the men to challenge him. ‘If you’re ever looking for employment—’
‘I’d rather die than serve one who plays with dark magic.’
Gendrick’s mood turned less jolly in an instant. ‘Take her kin’s last born.’ Snake and Sly dropped to the road in perfect synchrony, baselards drawn, their blades cutting the air with a brittle sound. The old woman stood in their way for only a moment, Sly pushing her to ground with a rough hand and foul tongue. Snake put his boot to the cottage door. Someone inside screamed and a child cried with the high pitched wail of a feral cat. The poisoner forced himself inside, ignoring the protests of the father, reappearing only seconds later gripping the mother’s wrist as tightly as her infant suckled at her bare breast.
‘Is this the last born?’ Gendrick demanded to know.
The mother was hysterical, her husband held at swordpoint by Tyne-Sly. ‘Leave my baby.’ She turned her back on Snake as he reached for the infant and screamed when he tried to snatch it away from her. The father struggled, the skin of his neck tenting under pressure of the sharp blade.
The old woman was back on her feet, stumbling slowly towards the minister. ‘There’s no need for any of this,’ she said. ‘Be on your way.’
‘And have me not punish someone?’ Gendrick’s face was contorted now, his ill-manner fuelled by the tense fear shown all around him. He pulled his gloved fingers through tight, black curls. ‘Do you know what you ask of me, old woman?’
‘We are just simple people,’ she answered moving towards the mother. ‘We mean you no harm.’
Gendrick was agitated, dangerous and extremely unpredictable. ‘There will be a punishment,’ he told the watching crowd, his voice louder than the wind in the hills. ‘There must be punishment,’ he said in what came as a near-whisper.
‘Then punish me.’ The father pushed hard against Sly’s blade, blood replacing words on his tongue, a narrow slit bubbling at the front of his neck. The mother screamed, the baby cried, and the father’s legs wobbled—gently at first, then shook uncontrollably until he slid off the blade and slumped to the hard floor.
Gendrick sat in his saddle, indifferent to the lifeless body. ‘Punishment has been served,’ he said at last. ‘You are all free to go.’ He tugged at the reins and kicked his heels, his bodyguards doing likewise, Sly spitting on the fallen man before he left. The mother crouched and stroked her dead husband’s head, her knees bleeding on the rough gravel track, her simple dress open still from the waist. She cradled her baby on one arm and touched its face against a father’s it would never again see. The old woman dragged her fingers along the dirt, mixing it with the poisoner’s spit. She stood slowly and watched them leave, chanting quietly before pocketing the soggy grit for safekeeping.
Griff was making up for lost time. ‘You’ll snap an axle, so you will,’ Brae warned grabbing at the side-rail as the waggon lurched close to the grass fringe and the deep ditch beyond. ‘There’s no need to go so fast,’ he said through chattering teeth.
Tamulan took hold of the underside of his seat and clung tightly as the waggon hit one pothole after another. ‘The boy’s right,’ he called over the thrum of the wheels. ‘You’re going to tear this thing to pieces.’
‘Bollocks I am,’ Griff growled whipping the reins with added muster, swerving to avoid an oncoming cart. ‘I’m drivin’,’ he told them, and it wasn’t up for negotiation. They shot past farmers riding on large, open-topped waggons, fruit and vegetables packed tightly in boxes stacked three or four high. Shoppers walked, while wealthy merchants made their way to the city in covered vehicles, their expensive wares hidden from prying eyes.
Brae thrust a finger at an old woman wobbling on a stick and howled a loud warning. The near-side wheels left the floor momentarily, banged down hard and lifted again, throwing them free of the toppling waggon.
Jerrals’ Bridge, named after the eminent arcineer responsible for its design and subsequent build, waited between the riders and the City of Randor. To the everyday road-users, the structure appeared to be little more than a cobblestone continuation of the city street, its edges sporting dwarf walls on either side. But beneath the surface, Jerrals had constructed twelve, magnificent supporting archways that reached skywards out of the coastal rock over two hundred feet below. No records remained as to how he’d managed it—but managed it he had.
A city guard approached from a wooden sentry box, clearly nervous, wringing a black cap with both hands. ‘Wind’s coming off the sea, m’lord, left to right.’ The greensleeve demonstrated with an arcing motion of his outstretched arm, just in case they hadn’t understood. Gendrick offered no thanks for the warning. He pulled at
the fur and hid his neck from the biting cold, the wind travelling left to right true enough.
All along the bridge, waggons swayed, their passengers holding down large tarpaulins that flew like flags at full-mast. The huge Bell of Randor submitted to the will of the wind and shifted on an axle forged from the strongest Soubatian steel. They passed beneath the bell-tower and through the city’s main gate. Sly ducked, though needn’t have, as the structure hung over thirty feet above.
‘Told you, so I did.’ Brae licked his fingers and rubbed at his bleeding elbow. ‘Madoc’s gonna want payin’ for that.’
‘Broken before we started out, so it was.’ Griff hung from the upended cart so that he could swing a boot at it. ‘Find my crutch.’
‘Must be in the ditch,’ Brae said. ‘Can’t see it out here.’
Griff dropped from his perch and hopped around to the other side to get a better look at what they were doing. Tamulan was knelt in the long-grass, flattening it carefully with his hands; Brae poking at the muddied water with a short length of broken stick. ‘Stop messin’ about and get in there.’
‘I don’t like water.’ The druid got up and came away from the edge.
‘It’s not deep, man.’
‘Then you get in.’ Tamulan’s foot hit something firm as he moved. He stooped to lift Windsong from the grass and whispered calm words of Olluin as he took a cloth to its curves.
Griff watched him. ‘What is it with you and that thing?’ He didn’t wait for an answer and snatched his crutch from Brae’s grasp without a word of thanks. ‘Don’t you dare,’ he warned when the druid reached for the buckle of the mare’s tack. ‘You keep hold of that,’ he said in a louder voice still. ‘All your fault, so it is.’