When he was done, he stood at the entrance to the glade and stared at the circle. If he had to go, then this would be the time. It was the first day of the new moon. He looked at the battered barn which had housed his animals, now surrounded by buzzing flies. A sigh escaped his lips and he turned to face the path. He hadn't left the glade in more than twenty years and now that the time came to actually leave, it was hard to make himself take the first step. He glanced over at the monolith at the centre of the circle and his resolve hardened. Leaning lightly on the iron staff, he made his way down the track in search of civilisation.
He made good time, despite the overgrown track. The woods had mostly reclaimed it, but he was spry despite his age, and managed to negotiate the undergrowth and roots that sought to trip him with ease.
He reached the bottom of the track and looked about for a moment, trying to get his bearings and to remember landmarks. There had been a time when he'd had a map of the area, but he'd long since stopped caring about such things and hadn't managed to find it as he packed.
His eyes fell on a distant hill protruding from the trees. If he could get up there, he would have a better chance of finding a proper path or a road.
It took the better part of three hours before he stumbled upon the road. It was little more than a worn, muddy track but it ran in the right direction and showed signs of recent use. He clambered his way down the bank and onto the road itself, a feat which required some less than elegant sliding on his rump.
The road made for much easier travel and he caught himself almost enjoying it. “Stupid fool,” he berated himself out loud. He clenched his grasp upon the Wyrde, feeling its oily texture slip under his grip in his mind. He relaxed his grip slightly. The slipping had been enough to remind him of what he was about. This was not a happy jaunt through the woods.
He was drawing level with the hill when he saw the track. It turned off the road he was on and led directly to the hill. From the cart tracks that turned also, he could tell it was in more or less frequent use and he made the turn himself gladly. It would be good to see past the trees for once. He paused to take a drink from his skin before trudging up the hill.
A crack from the bushes was the only warning he had before the man tumbled from the bush and down the slope onto the road. He was short, little more than shoulder height as compared to himself and dressed in boiled leather armour covered with furs. He carried a long sword in one hand and a pack on his back but what caught his attention was the man's eyes, wide and terrible. Filled with horror and self-loathing.
He held a hand out. “Are you okay?” he asked gently and flinched back as the man crouched into a defensive posture, raising his sword.
“K'rak hu talaad!” the man barked at him. “Su vetesh?”
It was obviously a question, but the language was like nothing he'd ever heard. Then he noticed the gash in the man's side and the blood covering the hand that was pressed to it.
“I'm sorry. I can't speak that tongue,” he said slowly, calmly. “Your side, can I help you with that?” He gestured to the man's injury.
“Suranum ka latutha!” the man barked again, brandishing the sword and lifting his bloody hand away from his side to point at the ground.
He moved back a step cautiously. The strange man was becoming more and more agitated. He didn't have time for this. He stepped to the side, keeping his eyes on the man, his iron staff held between them.
“Look, I think I'm just going to go, my friend,” he said carefully, easing his way around the man.
“K'rak harlan su revek larn!” the leather-clad man screamed, pointing at the ground again.
“I don't understand you!” he snapped, growing exasperated himself.
The man suddenly flung himself forward and thrust with his sword as he kicked the staff away. The old man gasped as the blade bit deeply into his side and he tumbled into the mud. The pain was excruciating. He clenched his eyes tight and fought to keep control, but it was just all too much. The Wyrde flailed in his grasp, slipped. He clenched his grip convulsively but it twisted like an eel and then it was gone, escaping like the last breath of a drowning man. His eyes flew open and he glared at the strange foreign man “You fool!” he gasped as he slumped back in the mud. The man looked at him with an odd mixture of fear and anger and turned. As his eyes slowly closed he heard him run off towards the road with the frantic pace of naughty child.
He couldn't say how long he lay in the dirt. His side burned and throbbed with each pulse, but the pain told him he was still alive. Gingerly, he probed at it with one hand, keeping the rest of himself still. His robe seemed to be soaked with blood but the wound itself didn't appear too deep. Pressing down hard on it, he found his way to his feet and looked around at the empty track.
“You're worried about your modesty? Now?” He wheezed a painful laugh, as he pulled open the robe to get a better look. The blade had skidded along one rib before stabbing deep into his right side. He swore and cut a makeshift bandage from his robe, wadding it up against the wound and binding it tight.
Bending awkwardly against the pain and hooking it with one foot, he managed to retrieve his staff and he leant on it heavily as he staggered up the small path towards the hilltop. He silently thanked the fact that the main road had been rising for some time, so this side track wasn't overly steep. He was gasping as it was and the pain in his side threatened to overwhelm him with each step.
After what felt like hours, but which was probably no more than half an hour, he reached the end of the path. His heart sank as he took in the wreckage. A mass of splintered timber was all that remained of what had clearly been some form of tower. A small cabin sat near the wreckage but the violence that had occurred here was visible even from the edge of the muddy track.
“Hello?” he called cautiously. His side prevented him from taking too deep a breath and so the shout he'd intended came out weak and querulous. His only answer was silence and as he staggered closer to the cabin, he realised that the odd pile beside the doorway was a collection of bodies. He muttered to himself as he drew closer, there would be no salvation here. Perhaps inside at least, he might find something to better tend his wound.
The ground was slick with blood as he reached the doorway, and he held on tight to the frame as he pushed the door further open and stepped quickly inside, away from the blood-spattered grass. Letting go of the doorway, he turned swiftly to find a lamp, and his foot skidded out from under him in the pool of blood that covered the floor of the cabin. He slammed hard against the table and cried out. As the light faded from his vision, he saw the young man sat at the table with two swords embedded in his chest. He had just enough time to wonder what he had blundered into, when the darkness took him.
Chapter Twelve
Selena strolled through the gardens towards what had become her wing of the palace. The sun was bright this morning but the air was still crisp. Spring was definitely here, she decided, as she examined the buds on the roses. She was alone for once, having sent away her ladies-in-waiting and the ever-present pages.
She breathed deeply, enjoying the crispness of the air and the solitude of the gardens. It was so nice not to be surrounded by toadies and hangers-on. The power structure in the palace had changed and everyone was aware of it, from the chambermaids to the guards. It was nothing official, of course. The world wasn't even close to being ready for that. Everyone knew, however, that it was she who now held the reins and the sycophants already trailed in her wake.
She sat in the gazebo for a time, and admired the tintias vines that ran up the side of the trellis, their fiery orange blooms already out and basking in the sunlight. The flaming blossoms matched her hair. Closing her eyes for a moment, she enjoyed the silence. The sun felt nice on her face. She was not one to sit still, however. Had she been content to do that, she would never have worked to seize effective control of the duchy. She stood and brushed her gown with the backs of her hands, as if wiping away the peace of the garden to make
room for other things. It was time for business.
She made her way inside, through the decorative patio doors and her chambers, until she reached the parlour. As she entered the room, her manner became sharp and businesslike. She strode to her favourite chair by the window and made herself comfortable, positioning her gown just so and pulling the little table closer.
“Mikel?” she called. The page, who had been waiting attentively by the door, stepped forward. “my lady?” he replied, with a small bow.
“Be so good as to invite Chamberlain Hanris to attend me with the accounts at his convenience,” she said. At his convenience would, of course, be interpreted as an immediate summons.
“At once, my lady.” The page bowed again and stepped back three paces before turning and moving swiftly to the door.
She looked out the window as she waited, enjoying the view as the light wind blew the puffy clouds across the sky. The sound of distant running brought a slight smile to her lips and she glanced expectantly at the door as she imagined Hanris puffing and blowing in the hallway and trying to put himself in order.
The door opened and the page entered, slightly ahead of Hanris who, remarkably, had managed to get his breathing under control.
“Chamberlain Hanris, my lady,” the page announced unnecessarily, as both he and the bird-like Hanris gave small bows.
“So good of you to come, Hanris.” She flashed a warm smile. “You needn't have come immediately you know?” He was wearing another of those black coats and ruffled white shirts. She briefly wondered how many of those outfits he had. He seemed to regard it almost as a uniform.
“It's no bother, my lady,” he replied. He was clutching a thick, leather-bound ledger under one arm.
“Why don't we have Mikel bring over a chair and you can talk me through the accounts?” she suggested, with a smile that made it clear it was nothing remotely like a suggestion.
“Of course, my lady,” Hanris said, in a defeated tone as the page struggled with a heavy wooden chair.
“Now then,” she said brightly, as he sat. “Why don't you dazzle me with how well our new estates are doing in the Eastern Reaches?”
“We've had, some success,” Hanris said cautiously without releasing the ledger from his grip. “The new villages of Frenton's Cross, Shayton and Selene are well-established now, and they should be planting fields as we speak.”
“Selene?” She cocked an eyebrow but sounded pleased, almost girlishly so.
“The villagers named it themselves, my lady.” Hanris coughed, apologetically.
“It's an...interesting name for a village, I suppose,” she mused, and tapped her elegantly painted nails on the deeply polished rosewood table. “And the tithe?”
“We have sent collectors throughout the duchy, my lady.”
“What a delightful way of avoiding the question!” She clapped her hands in a giddy fashion and then fixed the little man with a piercing look. “I had assumed that much, unless you were planning to totally ignore my order. How much success are we having?”
“Moderate at best, I'm afraid,” he sighed. “I've given instructions to the collectors to take no more than the village can afford to spare without causing hardship, as per your instructions.”
“And?” She leaned forward, one finger tapping out a staccato rhythm onto the tabletop.
“And we are bringing in revenue, my lady. Of course, it will be more in years to come, when the new villages and farms have had a fruitful season or two.” He smiled a thin smile that didn't reach his eyes.
“What aren't you telling me here, Hanris?” she asked, suspiciously, as she stared into his eyes through the spectacles perched on his beak-like nose.
“Whilst the revenues have increased, my lady, our position is unchanged.” He sighed and suddenly looked very old and tired. She wondered how she'd never noticed before, but the man had to be at least in his late forties. “The expenditure on the forts and beacons has been enormous, and frankly your husband's donations are exacerbating our situation.” He winced apologetically.
Selena sat back and composed herself carefully before she spoke. “What exactly are these donations, Hanris?” She watched as the chamberlain's composure cracked for the first time in the five years she'd known him.
“I…I'm sorry, my lady,” he sputtered. “I assumed you knew!”
“Knew what, exactly?” She folded her hands in her lap and fought to remain calm as she held his gaze.
“I really can't say, my lady,” Hanris was like a startled bird in a cage, flapping to try and escape danger despite the knowledge that there is nowhere to go.
“I'm afraid I really must insist, Hanris.” Her green eyes turned as hard as her tone.
“Your Ladyship, you must understand my position,” he pleaded, wringing his hands.
“I understand your position perfectly, Hanris,” Selena said, in a soft, calm voice. “Your position is one in the employ of the ducal household. Now, much as I usually try to deny it, at present it is advantageous to me to accept that I am your duchess and, as such, your employer. It would seem to me, Hanris, this it is you who does not understand his position.”
“my lady...” She brought her hand up with a snap and made a short, shushing noise. He froze mid-sentence and closed his mouth with an audible clacking of teeth.
“Hanris,” she said, smoothly. “I understand your problem. You are caught between your duty to my husband and your common sense, which informs you that denying me would be extremely foolish.” She stood and walked over to the window, continuing to speak as she looked out into the gardens. “Now, whilst I understand your problem, and can even sympathise, it is your problem.” She turned to face him as he sat slack-jawed in the chair. “Now, are you going to answer my question? Or shall we see how long it takes Freyton to notice his chamberlain has been dismissed? Personally, I would wager it would take a good few weeks. You know how he can be.” She smiled sweetly at him and settled down behind the little table again, waiting.
Hanris gaped at her for a long minute before removing his glasses and cleaning them on a handkerchief he pulled from an inner pocket. “I see you leave me little choice, my lady,” he sighed. “In truth, I thought you knew.” He gave a sad little smile. “The duke has been meeting with a priest from the Church of New Days for some years now.”
“A priest?” She didn't bother to conceal her shock. “What on earth would Freyton want with a priest?”
“Honestly? I have no idea, my lady. The meetings are kept strictly private.” Hanris pushed his gleaming glasses back onto his nose. They completed his face, somehow, and he looked odd without them. “In any event, the donations have been quite sizeable.”
She pursed her lips in thought. “Show me.”
A noise outside the door diverted her attention for the moment and the page slipped out to see what the commotion was. She turned back to the thick ledger that Hanris had spread out over the table.
“I don't care if she's with the King himself!” The shouting penetrated the heavy door. “You open this door now or I'll do it myself, you jumped up little piss-ant!” Selena raised an eyebrow at Hanris who looked back over his shoulder at the door.
The page entered, looking decidedly flustered. “Captain Rhenkin insists on seeing you immediately, my lady.” He gave Hanris an embarrassed look. “I did inform him that your meeting was private and not to be disturbed, but he is quite insistent.”
“My, my. An insistent man in uniform,” Selena purred and burst out laughing as she caught the look on Hanris's face. “Show him in, then. By the sounds of things, he's likely to do something painful to you if you don't.”
Rhenkin pushed his way past the outraged page with a dishevelled guardsman in tow. He gave the briefest of bows. “my lady, I apologize for this interruption but I felt this needed your urgent attention.” Selena motioned for him to go on. “It seems the Bjornmen raiders have invaded.”
She shot to her feet. “Why weren't we informed? If there ha
s been a raid, why weren't the beacons lit?” She clenched her fists by her sides.
“It seems this is far more than a raid,” Rhenkin replied. “This is Guardsman Stefan. He rode all the way from Tibbets Shore to bring the news.”
She fought to calm herself. “That is a goodly way, Guardsman, but why were the beacons not lit?”
Stefan's uniform was covered in mud and dust from the roads, and his face was unshaven. He cleared his throat, and twisted his tabard in his hands as he spoke.
“Beg your pardon, M'Lady, but it was lit.” He plunged on, as her eyebrows rose, “I lit the first one m'self when I saw the bas... beg pardon, M'Lady. When I saw the ships arriving.”
She ignored the almost profanity. “If you lit the beacon, then why are we only just now hearing about this?” Stefan flushed and looked down at his mud-spattered boots.
Rhenkin interjected smoothly. “It seems that the chain has been interrupted, my lady. Stefan saw the second beacon had been lit from his position on the tower. The chain must have been broken farther inland.”
She paused, digesting the information. “You mentioned this was more than just a simple raid?”
“Yes, my lady.” He turned to the nervous guardsman. “Tell her.”
“There were thousands of them, Your Ladyship,” Stefan blurted. “They overran the tower an' the fort in minutes.”
“Thousands?” she scoffed. “Come now, the ships don't hold that many, surely?”
“Beggin' your pardon Ma'am, but yes thousands,” Stefan said, holding his head high. “I saw easily four or five hundred ships, with more in the distance behind them.”
“Five hundred,” she gasped, reaching blindly for the back of her chair. She sank into the seat and for a moment stared blankly into space. “The garrisons?” she asked, weakly.
“Ordered to stay where they are, for the moment, my lady,” Rhenkin advised. He stood at attention, shoulders back. It was probably his way of coping, she realised.
“Has anyone informed Freyton?”
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