by Donovan, Rob
Jacquard watched the warlords filter out of the room. He tried to catch Althalos’s eye but his son was too consumed with his own thoughts. He would need to demonstrate more confidence if he was to truly lead an army.
Was Tulber correct? Maybe Althalos should be charged with looking for the Gloom whilst he led the army? Either way contained risks. Althalos was young and inexperienced but he had been brought up learning to fight and he was clever. To deal with Iskandar and the Order required more than intelligence, it needed life experience. The Gloom was also the priority.
Win or lose the forthcoming battle, the outcome did not matter if the Gloom was still at large. He had to think of the people of Frindoth first and foremost.
It was a while before he noticed a figure lingering in the doorway. Longshaw hesitated by the entrance, the leader of the knights bit his lip as he wrung his hands. He glanced down the corridor and then back toward the king.
“Yes, Longshaw?” Jacquard smiled in an attempt to reassure the knight. He was not used to seeing him on edge. The knight entered the room and shut the door behind him. “I take it you heard the discussion?”
Longshaw nodded. “Hard to close your ears when you are in the same room.”
Jacquard smiled again, “It is difficult not to overhear but easy to keep your opinions. Yet I sense you want to offer some advice now?” Longshaw’s cheeks coloured and he hung his head. “Relax, my friend. I would gladly hear what you have to say.”
“Forgive me, my lord, but I heard no mention of Raoul Seth.”
Jacquard slumped back into his chair. In all the pandemonium he had forgotten about the Lakisdoan king. Suddenly he felt the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. It was too much to bear. “Raoul Seth,” he echoed.
“He needs to be told,” Longshaw said.
“Does he? The Gloom has never crossed the sea. Not once in all of my reign and of those before me. There is no need to inform Lakisdoa of our weakened position. Besides, he probably already knows.”
“But the Treaty,” Longshaw insisted. “It will be better for the Treaty if we inform him out of courtesy. Even if he already knows, it would count for a lot if you informed him.”
Jacquard nodded. He was not being told anything he did not already know, but he was grateful all the same. Too many people had died for the Treaty for it to be jeopardised by such a blatant disregard of respect on his part. If Raoul Seth decided to act upon the news then so be it. At least Jacquard would not be the one to break it.
Jacquard took a swig from his goblet. The wine tasted warm as he swished it around in his mouth.
Should he ask Raoul for help? Maybe he was being too harsh on the king. If Raoul Seth led the Lakisdoans across the sea, then maybe they could crush Vashna between them. It would certainly solve the problem and Althalos’s first foray into battle would be a successful one. If, if, Raoul Seth could be trusted.
It was a big “if”. Raoul Seth was a pious man. Whereas the people of Frindoth recognised the three moon gods, Lakisdoans worshipped them with an appalling degree of zeal. The last time they had met was four years ago when Jacquard and a small envoy had made the customary sojourn across the sea. The terms of the Treaty expressed the kings met every five years on alternate soil to maintain relations. This usually involved a terse dinner and an overnight stay.
Last time, Raoul Seth kept Jacquard waiting in Helvastas just outside the capital city for a week whilst the Lakisdoans observed the Red Moon God Staogon’s birthday. Apart from the wait, Jacquard had been furious to learn how the bloodthirsty deity was being worshipped by a series of contests between slaves fighting to their deaths. One contest was rumoured to have made a mockery of the Ritual of the Stones by having a lion dressed as the Gloom devouring defenceless children.
There had been no proof of this, however, and Jacquard had been forced to endure the exquisitely hosted meal with its stilted conversation.
Longshaw cleared his throat, stirring the king from his reveries. He glanced up at the knight who was looking at him with concern.
“I will draft a letter tonight. Select a band of trusted men to go to Lakisdoa. Tell no one.”
Longshaw bowed and left the room, leaving Jacquard to his thoughts.
Chapter 22
Jefferson encountered the first members of Vashna’s army as he crossed the grasslands of Shangon. They occupied a small fort that overlooked the Great Canyon. Vashna’s banner showing the green dragon blazed in the morning sun and forced a wry smile from him. So Kana has been persuaded at last. It was the first bit of good news he had come across since Delmut had informed him of Norva Steele’s escape.
He was still livid about it. After striking the useless worm, Jefferson had insisted on seeing the cell where she had been held captive. Delmut insisted it was still locked and he could not fathom how the ghost assassin had escaped. Sure enough, when he reached the cell, the door was still bolted shut, and the manacles still locked. Somehow, she had managed to free herself from the iron chains without unlocking the mechanism.
In his anger, he went to lash out at Delmut again, but this time the painted man cowered away. To be fair, it was not the Pit keeper’s fault. Jefferson had not trusted anyone else and retained the solitary key to her cell as soon as he had learned of the stone. So how did she escape?
The question had been annoying him since he had fled the city. There was no way he could have stayed in Lilyon with her on the loose. If she told Jacquard the truth, which he suspected she would, judging by her confession to the king over the killing of Cader, then no amount of excuses or word play would convince the king of his innocence.
In a way, he was glad the truth was out. He no longer had to pretend to be the feeble old advisor he’d murdered so long ago. Although it had been important to maintain the illusion of a trusted ally, he loathed portraying such a weak character knowing he was more powerful than everyone in that palace.
He wondered if Iskandar knew who he really was. Surely he must. Iskandar was no fool, but why had he never told Jacquard? Then again, would the gullible king have believed him? He did not even know when his dear friend had been murdered and another man had assumed his identity.
How did you escape, Norva? As he watched the first of the lookout soldiers spot him on the horizon, he decided maybe she really was a ghost.
He was forced to stop his approach to the fort when two arrows whistled through the air and embedded themselves in the soil in front of him, causing his horse to rear. He handled the animal superbly, maintaining his balance as he settled the creature down.
“Identify yourself,” an authoritative voice from within the fort said.
“Cordane,” he said, pulling his hood back to reveal his face. Gone was the wispy grey hair, the multiple wrinkles and the tired eyes. In their place, was a hard-faced man with a crooked nose and tight lips. His hair was a much more youthful chestnut colour than the elderly Jefferson’s and cut short and flat. Cordane was how he appeared to Vashna and was his true self. The man that was Jefferson was now officially dead. The false appearance discarded like the true identity of the man years before.
“State your busin—”
Cordane smiled as the voice cut off. The soldier obviously did not know who he was and was no doubt being severely reprimanded for challenging him. As if to confirm his thoughts, the doors to the fort swung open and a small, squat figure came hurrying out to meet him.
“I’m truly sorry, my lord,” the man said between deep breaths. He reached out to take the reins of Cordane’s horse, before hesitating.
“May I?” he asked, his face blanching at his mistake.
“By all means, lead on,” Cordane said.
Later that night, Cordane sat in a basic but comfortable hut eating roasted duck and herbs. Opposite him sat Carle, whom he now knew to be the leader of this particular legion and commander of the fort.
Their conversation had been limited. Carle appeared to be a no nonsense leader, answering only when Cordane spok
e to him. In complete contrast to the lookout he had encountered earlier, Carle appeared to have his men well organised and operating efficiently.
Inside the fort, the soldiers occupied themselves by checking weapons and running endless drills. Cordane was impressed with how tirelessly they went about their duties. He observed one group of men fighting for most of the afternoon with stones tied to their arms to build up their upper body strength. He’d been pleasantly surprised by how effortless the majority of them found the exercise. These were men that were not bullied into joining Vashna, but believed in his cause.
“When will Lord Vashna be passing through?” Cordane said.
“Through here?” Carle answered as he chewed on a chicken wing. Cordane tried not to be repulsed as greasy juice ran down his chin, “He is not passing through here.”
“Oh?” Cordane stopped eating. Why on Frindoth would Vashna not pass through this fort? It marked the only point that his army could cross the canyon. Carle placed the chicken wing back on his plate and looked at Cordane, unsure whether to continue. Cordane flicked his hand impatiently, gesturing that the commander had his permission.
“Vashna decided it would take too long to mobilise his force and march it down to Shangon. The bridge here is narrow and is not strong enough to support a legion of soldiers crossing it, to do so would take weeks, weeks he felt we did not have.
“Instead, he has decided to send half his force down to the Shangon crossing and then to march up through Yurisdoria, where they can attack the Great Bridge from the other side. With the Yurisdorians distracted, Vashna will renew his attack on his side of the bridge. It is thought that facing enemies from two different directions, the Yurisdorians will not be able to cope and it should be easy to defeat them. By the time Jacquard sends his army to face us, Vashna’s entire army will be ready and waiting for him on the plains of Widerule.”
Cordane digested the plan as he chewed his food. It was a shrewd plan and made perfect sense. Hamsun had left his army behind to attend the council believing they could withstand Vashna as long as he tried to cross the Great Bridge. Any attempt for the army to cross the canyon at another bridge would take weeks and by that time he would have returned with the full weight of the western army.
Is Vashna skilled enough to take the Great Bridge, though? he pondered. Vashna was a calculating and ferocious warrior, but his pride let him down. Would he be able to resist the temptation to conquer Yurisdoria rather than consolidate his position and wait for the enemy? He has waited too long for this opportunity to throw it away now; containing Stasiak will be the problem. A problem I can help with. He noticed Carle staring at him.
“Something on your mind, Commander?”
“If I may be so bold as to ask you a question, my lord?” Carle said, wetting his lips.
“It appears you already have, but I permit you to ask another,” Cordane said.
“Where do you fit into all this?”
“Me?”
Carle lowered his eyes, unable to look at Cordane. He spoke quickly as if he was afraid his courage might desert him.
“I am no fool, sir. I have seen how Vashna has sought your opinion, and I sense you are a very powerful man. If we win this war, Vashna gets to be king, I am not so sure what you get out of it.”
“Deciding whether or not you are backing the right man, are we? Afraid that I may double-cross Vashna?”
The directness of the commander delighted him. It was refreshing to converse with someone who thought beyond the next battle.
“No, my lord. My loyalty lies with Vashna and will always do so providing I believe in his cause. Jacquard has let the regions govern themselves for too long in the pretence of peace. If I am backing the wrong man, then so be it. I would just like to know, is all,” Carle said, eventually raising his eyes to meet his. Cordane laughed.
“Well said, young man. I believe in the same thing as Vashna: For too long, Frindoth has been allowed to fester in its weakness, to focus on the poor morons that soil its land, to allow its people to bow down and worship some shadowy entity as if it were its slave. If Raoul Seth knew how weak Frindoth had become, he would not hesitate to breach the hundred-year peace agreement.
“Frindoth needs to be ruled by a strong king, to open its eyes to the mysteries of the world. I believe Vashna is that man. I do not wish for anything other than for him to become king. And when he does, for it is inevitable, I will teach him how to become the greatest ruler Frindoth has ever seen.”
Carle bowed his head at the response. Whether he was convinced or not at Cordane’s speech was hard to say. It does not matter if he believes me or not. It is the truth, at least for the time being.
Carle began gathering up the empty plates but Cordane gestured for him to sit. Carle sat down reluctantly. He looked around the room for something to distract him. Cordane noticed beads of perspiration were forming on his brow. He is suddenly not so at ease with me.
“Tell me, Commander, have you seen much of Stasiak?” he asked. Carle hesitated before answering, as if selecting the best way to answer the question.
“I have seen him in battle and marched with him.”
“And what do you think of him?”
“A fierce warrior, good with a sword, even better with two.”
The reply was automatic. Carle stared at his hands as he answered. What is this? Suddenly the commander is holding out on me?
“And?”
“And, my lord?”
“Anyone could have told me that. What is your personal opinion of him?” Cordane tried to keep his question pleasant but it was clear to both of them he demanded an honest answer.
He studied Carle who was fixated on the flickering flame of the candle in front of him, as if he drew comfort from its warmth. The wax had almost melted, so the flame was all that could be seen in the holder. The light danced across Carle’s face illuminating his green eyes sporadically. The man was free with his tongue, but also knew his place. Cordane liked him and made a mental note to remember him for the future.
“The boy is reckless and has an unquenchable thirst for violence. There are men that like to inflict pain on others for some sadistic sense of enjoyment, but this Stasiak is something altogether different. He is a monster. He hurts others for no reason. He doesn’t seem to get any pleasure from it. He just does it.
“It is almost programmed into his blood as if he does not know any better. I am uncomfortable being on his side, but I am damned pleased I am not fighting against him.”
“Can he be controlled?” Cordane said, unfazed at Carle’s words.
“I don’t think so. At the moment he obeys Vashna, but the man is an animal, no one knows where he came from or who his family was.”
“I do,” Cordane said, and watched with relish as Carle looked at him in surprise. The candle finally burnt out leaving them in darkness as he said, “He came from my household.”
* * *
Jensen’s stomach growled for what seemed like the thousandth time that morning. He was ravenous and this only exacerbated his anger. He kicked a stone, sending it flying into the undergrowth, a startled rabbit hopped away in surprise making him even angrier. Another potential meal had escaped him.
Four days had passed since he had fled his family and still his anger had not abated. Every time he tried to see his father’s reasoning, he pictured him collapsed on his knees, a defeated figure. This only fuelled his wrath. Even if he didn’t agree with his father’s actions, at least he could respect his conviction and courageousness in making his decision. But the broken man he left behind contradicted all of those things and demonstrated how ill-conceived his scheme was.
He flopped on the ground, thoroughly miserable. I am better off on my own. If he can’t protect us any more, then what is the point in staying with him. He stared up at the treetops. The leaves differed in their shades of green as they overlapped. Every now and then a small breeze caused them to sway as if the branches were vibrating.
How had it come to this? Less than a month ago, he was thinking how good life was. He was free and did not have a care in the world. Endless days spent with Brody, Janna and Brenna. Gods, I miss Brenna. A crystal clear memory of her smell came to him, fresh hay tinged with her own scent. It was so realistic he could almost taste it. He closed his eyes and thought of her, her lips against his and then cautiously her tongue seeking his. He felt himself grow hard and smiled at the notion.
That time seemed so long ago, there was no point thinking about it now. Instead, he focussed on another memory: The four of them sat by the river scoffing apples. Brody bragged he could juggle four apples and eat one of them at the same time. They had been enthralled when a group of maskers had visited Longcombe earlier in the year and one of them had managed to eat three apples whilst juggling them. Since then, Brody had been determined to replicate the trick.
He managed to juggle the four apples easy enough, but his attempt to eat one of the apples left him with a busted lip and sent his arms flailing as the remaining apples sprawled in various directions. He eventually toppled into the river to a chorus of hysterical laughter.
Jensen smiled at the memory, but the smile died as soon as it began to be replaced by tears. It was too painful to think of Brody, of Brenna and even Janna. Never again would the four share that kind of laughter.
His stomach gurgled again; he must eat. In the time since he had fled, he had not eaten a proper meal. He had been living off berries mainly, which was far from satisfying. He could not believe, given the hundreds of trees he had traversed through that not one offered fruit to satisfy his hunger.
A movement on the periphery of his vision caused him to turn and look at the trees. A man crept through the trees, an arrow cocked in his bow as he fixated on something in the distance. Jenson followed the man’s stare and saw a doe grazing in the distance. He licked his lips at the sight. Maybe, just maybe, if the man was successful, he might be persuaded to share some of his meat.