A Foolish Wind: The Oak Knower Chronicles (The Druids, Dragons and Demons Series Book 1)

by Andy Roberts

  Griff pressed his right nostril and inhaled the white powder with a sniff of his left. It tickled and burned at the same time, his heartbeat accelerating well beyond his control. His vision blurred, the real world now on the other side of a silken veil.

  ‘We won’t have long.’ Tamulan watched the shadow attempt to shake Jopha awake. He pushed on the door and had Griff follow without delay.

  The dwarfs were sat on each of the whale’s knees, the man squeezing flexed biceps as though trying to choose between two peaches on a market stall. Unable to decide, he chose both and made his way to the stairs, hand in hand with his purchases.

  Sea shanty lady stopped singing, watching but not seeing Tamulan and Griff walk by. She swore in anger as her opponent took advantage of the moment, forcing her arm onto the table top. The man raised his hand in celebration and took a forthright fist to the bridge of his nose from her. Someone laughed raucously, though managed it only until the bloodied man stuck a sharp blade in his belly. The knife-man stood, lifted and drew the blade up the screamer’s abdomen, stopping only when prevented from going any further by the point of the sternum. The dying man grabbed at his spilt intestines, trying though not succeeding to push them back inside the gaping hole. The landlord reached under the countertop and produced his fire-lance in warning—just another night in the colourful history of the Rat.

  In the hall, alcohol, vomit and herbs mixed with Pockmark’s patchouli oil. The menacing doorman filled the space almost completely, smoking and checking the alley as though he were expecting someone. He turned and looked through them both—and still he stood in their way. Tamulan glanced towards the bar area and saw no evidence that Jopha was yet awake. He held Griff close to the wall, waiting for his opportunity. Pockmark stepped outside just then and walked a small semi-circle in the mud. He dropped the butt of his smoke and trod it underfoot. Tamulan grabbed the innkeeper’s collar and forced him from the hallway, lifting him off his foot almost, such was the urgency of his movement. Griff complained and found himself slipping about in the mud; Pockmark shoved his hands in his pockets and went back inside.

  Lanista Belb stood at the gates of the Oval, a roll of parchment held in a hand weighed heavy with a fistful of gold rings. ‘My Lord.’ The wiry fight-master bowed like a sapling bullied by a rising storm.

  ‘Is the Reaban ready?’ Gendrick wanted to know, ignoring pleasantries completely. He dismounted and handed Obsidian’s reins to Tyne-Sly.

  ‘Stronger than I’ve ever seen him, My Lord.’

  ‘The contest is arranged?’ Gendrick’s attention turned to the sandwich-boards and artist’s impressions of the Oval’s most famed fighters. Bhushar’s image was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Prince Robut has accepted the challenge, My Lord.’ The People’s Champion was heir to the throne of Thresk and an outrageously gifted numberer at Oxdon University. ‘There’s a fine crowd building.’

  Gendrick peered through the railing-gate, at row upon row of students sat talking in huddles, sharing jokes as easily they did slices of hot pie. ‘You’ve done well.’ He hovered a purse of coins above the lanista’s open hand. ‘I reward such loyalty handsomely.’ He dropped the purse and folded Belb’s fingers tightly around it. ‘But do take care,’ he said squeezing as though wringing the water from a wet cloth. ‘I punish failure in equal measure.’

  ‘My Lord?’ Belb straightened and stood less assuredly.

  ‘If the Reaban fails to kill the prince, then Snake will remove your liver and have you feast on it.’

  The Oval loomed large and loud, a half dozen glow-lights bobbing above the heads of the crowds as the greensleeves hunted for him. Brae slowed and caught sight of the horsemen at its entrance, saw Gendrick and his two henchmen talking to a tough-looking man near its gate. The greensleeves saw them too and turned away, their lights quickly extinguished. Brae slipped under the railing and entered the thumping arena unseen, so preoccupied were the ticket-sellers with the presence of the Minister for Punishment.

  The structure was open-roofed and constructed of limestone blocks and stout, wooden pillars. Row-upon-row of weathered boards functioned as seats, rising in stepped tiers that were more than fifty deep in all directions. The air smelled hot and stale—sweat, blood and fear trapped within the very fabric of the old building. The Oval had, in its so-called hey-day, served death on a plate for anyone willing to pay for such entertainment, while modern-day combatants fought only until their opponent yielded.

  ‘Move on,’ someone said. ‘You’re blocking the way.’

  Brae passed a vendor selling meat pastries and cups of warmed, spice wine. He’d not eaten since breakfast that morning and his stomach was doing all it could to voice its displeasure to anyone willing to listen. ‘What’s a pie cost?’ he asked, reaching into his trouser pocket.

  ‘Two flannings,’ the man replied. ‘Pie and wine.’ He looked up from the serving tray and gave the teenager a brief once-over. ‘Pie only for you.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I’m not risking my licence.’

  ‘How much without the wine?’ Brae asked.

  ‘Still two flannings.’ The vendor saw the questioning look. ‘I just sell the stuff,’ he said with a shrug and pointed his tongs towards another pie cart. ‘Argue it out with the boss if you want.’ Brae paid his money and took a bite of the pie. He winced and shifted chunks of hot beef with a near-scalded tongue. All around him, touts played tic-tac with the seated crowd, coins changing ownership as quickly as hands at a cards table.

  ‘Get on with it,’ someone called, setting off a slow hand-clap that soon had the planking shake with the clatter of stamping boots.

  Gendrick settled in his seat and took the travel-bong from beneath his firs. ‘Get the Reaban in the ring,’ he said peeling the waxy paper off a small block of resin.

  Belb leaned beyond Snake and unrolled his parchment. He put his finger alongside the names of Prince Robut of Thresk and Bhashur, House of Gendrick. ‘My Lord, theirs is the main event. The crowds—’

  Gendrick snatched the roll and tossed it over the balcony onto the clay surface nearly twenty feet below. He turned to his bodyguards. ‘Go amuse yourselves with the lanista’s daughter.’ Tyne-Sly stood first.

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ Belb said quickly. ‘I’ll inform the ringmaster at once.’

  Gendrick rested his boots on the raised handrail and thumbed his igniter.

  The fight area was positioned within a large circle of white pebbles set out on a rectangle of ochre-coloured clay. Two arms-lengths outside the first, was a second such arrangement of stones, beyond which was the out-of-bounds area. Below the raised seating at the far side of the arena were three shabbily painted doors. The first was a dirty white and belonged to the champions of each of four divisions. The black door gave shelter to the waiting challengers. The door to the healing room was a sun-faded red and stood between the other two.

  A drunken man screamed for the organisers to get on with it and threw a mug of spiced wine into the ring, its contents spilling, adding to the patchwork of darker stains. Gendrick sat and watched Belb engage in a heated discussion on the clay below, the ringmaster then disappearing for some time behind the white door.

  ‘How much longer?’ Sly complained, digging at the makeshift footrest with the pointed end of a sharp knife. Cheers erupted all around them, sparing the hireling the painful indignity of being pinned to the rail by his own blade. The ringmaster, himself a seasoned fighter, had at last returned and called the crowd to order. He circled with arms raised high, his confident swagger left behind in the washrooms hidden below ground.

  ‘Get on with it,’ the drunk shouted before slipping off his seat to the amusement of all those nearby.

  ‘We have a change in order.’ The ringmaster struggled to make himself heard above the roars of disapproval. He sidestepped a bottle that arced through the air towards him, though wasn’t quite quick enough to avoid the half-eaten pie that exploded on his upper chest.

/>   Gendrick nodded at a serving-boy stood waiting at the top of the steps and gestured that he attend them. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Peta,’ the boy said moving with a nervous fidget.

  ‘And how old might you be, Peta?’

  He brushed a fringe of blonde hair away from his wide, blue eyes and tried hard not to wet himself. ‘Nine years, sir.’

  ‘Your mother must be a very pretty lady?’

  Peta swallowed hard. ‘Father says that she was.’ He looked away. ‘She’s passed, sir.’

  ‘And just how did she die?’ Gendrick leaned towards the boy and stroked his milky cheek. ‘Spare no detail.’

  ‘She bled, sir. At my coming.’

  Gendrick put a hand to his mouth and feigned a look of shock. ‘You killed your own mother?’

  The boy blinked. ‘No sir.’

  The minister’s manner changed suddenly from that of cruel teasing to one of officious contempt. ‘Then you’re a liar.’ His voice was loud and accusing. ‘Admit it,’ he said with a show of clenched teeth.

  ‘Sir?’ Peta was far too young to comprehend the spiteful game. ‘Father said it wasn’t my fault.’

  ‘So you did kill her,’ Gendrick insisted. ‘You are a murderer.’

  ‘No sir.’ The crotch of Peta’s threadbare trousers stained dark and his sandalled feet ran wet with urine that sank into the boards beneath them.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’

  Peta didn’t. ‘The King?’ he answered with a hopeful shrug.

  Gendrick laughed and rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘One day perhaps. But for now, I’ll have to be content with the title of Minister for Punishment.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to kill my mother.’

  Gendrick nodded and Snake caught hold of the boy quicker than he could squeal. He spun him up and over, dangling him by the feet on the other side of the handrail as though he were a fallen game-bird. ‘I’m going to count to ten, or five—I haven’t yet decided which,’ Gendrick told him. A few of the crowd noticed immediately and stood, open-mouthed. Most hadn’t and continued to berate the beleaguered ringmaster. ‘Only complete silence will save you, Peta. Now let’s see if your dead mother wants you punished as much as I do.’ Peta swung, bucked and threw his arms about in a failed attempt to get the people’s attention.

  ‘One.’

  Peta screamed, willing them to save him.

  ‘Two, three, four,’ Gendrick said in quick succession. More people stood: the arena quieter.

  ‘Five.’ Gendrick exaggerated the number and Peta screwed his eyes tight shut, his tongue bleeding in the grasp of his teeth.

  ‘Six,’ was called with equal vigour. ‘Seven.’

  Peta screamed at the crowd. Called for his father. Begged his mother to forgive him.

  ‘Eight,’ arrived with a sudden explosion of green glass and spiced wine. Gendrick jumped to his feet, eyes searching the crowd as he wiped at his furs. Silence fell upon the arena, nobody daring to move. The minister leaned over the handrail and examined the evidence. ‘It seems your mother doesn’t yet seek your company.’ The boy said nothing: couldn’t say anything. ‘Put him down,’ Gendrick told the hireling. ‘Gently,’ he warned. Peta swayed on unsteady legs and grabbed at the handrail. Gendrick lay a full glint in the palm of the boy’s hand. ‘You’re free to go,’ he said laughing loudly as Peta set off like an animal released from a trap. He ran. Ran like he’d never run before. The gold coin fell from his grasp and bounced on the boards, rolled and made circles until it came to a halt somewhere out of sight. Peta didn’t notice, wouldn’t have cared even if he had. He lowered his head and pumped his little arms and legs with every ounce of energy he possessed.

  The ringmaster used the brief reprieve to compose himself and introduced Prince Robut with a well practised musicality to his voice. The heir to the Threskan throne emerged from the white door, bringing with him a throwing-net and razor-sharp trident. He strutted the wide circumference of the outer ring, wearing a traditional white toga and laced ankle-boots, milking the occassion for all it was worth.

  ‘And from the House of Gendrick, we have a new challenger.’ The crowd held its breath with nervous anticipation, but before the man could complete his introduction, the black door was kicked open and Bhushar entered the ring with an unrivalled menace. The challenger was huge; bigger than any man had a right to be. He stood naked, his entire body painted with a sky-blue pigment, his shoulder-length hair coloured white as a winter frost. He held a club-axe with both hands and shook it at the jeering crowd, goading anyone foolish enough to take him on. He circled Robut and hit him hard with a powerful shoulder. A rumble of disapproval made its way around the arena, rising to something much louder when the challenger heaved the ringmaster onto the hard clay.

  ‘Careful, Robut,’ someone called.

  ‘Robut … Robut ... Robut,’ another began, several more joining in.

  The prince took a rearward step, lowering his weapon in a defensive pose as the ringmaster scurried off as quickly as his hands and knees would carry him. Bhushar didn’t wait for the horn to sound and swung his club-axe at the torso of the prince. Robut side-stepped the cumbersome blow and jabbed at his opponent’s muscular chest with his trident, drawing first blood. A bell rang once. ‘Point to White,’ the ringmaster called above the deafening cheers and applause. Bhushar wiped at the superficial wound and licked his fingers, taunting his opponent with teeth that were filed to sharp points and now stained with his own blood. He drove the prince towards the inner circle of stones and used his weapon to snag the trident. He punched with his free hand, catching the prince squarely on the temple. Robut fell to the floor and fought to maintain consciousness. He gasped for breath, mouth-breathing like a fish out of water as he raised his body onto hands and knees. The Reaban loomed, the crowd issuing anxious calls of warning. Robut shook himself awake and threw his net onto the clay in front of his oncoming opponent. He pulled with all his strength when he felt resistance, Bhushar going to ground like a felled tree. ‘No score,’ the ringmaster called to boos all around. The prince spat grit and wiped his cracked lips as he got to his feet. Bhushar grabbed the net, hauling it in like a fisherman in the shallows, and threw it into the out-of-bounds area on the other side of the stones. Robut stabbed repeatedly, doing what little he could to keep his opponent at bay—but the prince wasn’t yet recovered fully from the head-strike, his vision still blurred and his grip weak. The trident was taken easily, his only remaining weapon lost to him.

  ‘Get it back,’ someone urged. Robut looked towards the stones and saw four rings and two tridents.

  ‘It’s still inside the boundary,’ came the same voice. The prince rolled away as the club-axe smashed into the clay, rolled again, this time in the general direction of where he thought his weapon might be. The Reaban got there first and used his foot to hurl it out of bounds. The young prince raised his hands in reluctant surrender and took another sickening punch to the face. Bhushar pushed him to ground, ignored the loud blasts of the horn and put a foot on his chest.

  ‘I yield,’ Robut called with more than an edge of mounting fear. He slapped the clay in repeated submission, his eyes searching for a mercy that chose to turn its back on him.

  Bhushar raised the club-axe high above his head and awaited instruction from his lanista. Belb looked to the empty minister’s box, faltering only momentarily before condemning Robut to death. The Reaban brought the rounded edge of his weapon down onto the skull of the prince, breaking it into several pieces that were held together by just scalp and hair alone.

  The arena at first fell silent. Then whispers became jeers, and those, in turn, shouts of anger. People stood. Others stamped. All sought revenge. Two men came rushing through the healers’ door and grabbed Robut by the ankles—a trail of red fluid and grey jelly marking the fallen champion’s final route from the ring.

  Chapter

  — 9 —

  Tamulan leaned against a bin and used its sharp corner
to scrape mud from the soles of his boots. The powered dragon bone had worn off and the pair no longer moved under cover of their protective veil.

  ‘We should have killed her,’ Griff insisted, poking at his own boot with the heel of the crutch.

  ‘And if she had a binding on him, then we’d also kill the boy.’

  The innkeeper was about to ask another question when his eye was drawn to a runner making her way along Main Street. A leather shoulder-bag bounced against the girl’s right hip as she went, a roll of parchment clasped tight in her left hand. ‘Yellow tunic means she’s from the Senate,’ Griff said. ‘Important too by the looks of it.’

  Tamulan watched the pendulum motion of the runner’s arm. ‘She’s carrying a message.’

  ‘That’s what they do,’ Griff told him. ‘Yellow’s from the Senate. Red the bank, and blue from—’ The Bell of Randor sounded loudly, cutting across his words before he had opportunity to complete his explanation.

  ‘It’s time.’ Tamulan gave each sole a final scrape and then stepped onto the firm cobblestones, their shiny surface slippery underfoot.

  ‘What are we gonna tell him?’ Griff asked, following with some initial difficulty.

  ‘He’s figuring it out for himself.’ Tamulan made his way towards the fountain on the other side of the road, stopping to let a black carriage pass, its driver building speed as he headed in the direction of Jerrals’ Bridge.

  ‘Where is he?’ Griff asked, as though the druid should somehow know. Tamulan turned in a slow circle, but unlike the Dancing Lady, the smithy’s apprentice hadn’t made it by three bells.