by Clare Smith
“But instead she is the Queen?”
“Precisely, but with your assistance I could oust the pretender and restore law and order to Leersland.”
“And make yourself king,” mused Borman
“Yes, of course. I owe it to the people of Leersland to provide them with a strong and righteous king to rule them, not some slip of a girl who can only think of parties, dancing and her own looks.”
“Your missive mentioned a loan of men, horses and weapons?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. I have my own men of course but they are not enough to take back what is rightfully mine. If you could see your way to lend me ten troops of mounted guards to help me take the throne, or even twenty, if you could spare them, I would be eternally grateful.”
“How grateful would you be?”
Andron looked surprised at the question. “Er, well, I’m sure we could agree some trade concessions.”
“Not enough.”
“And we would reimburse you the cost of the troops, horses and weapons and recompense you for any deaths.”
“That is still not enough.”
“What else would Your Majesty require?”
Borman smiled. “Land. I want all the land that is one day’s walk south of our current borders.”
“Your Majesty! That’s a huge amount of land.”
“A thousand mounted, armed and provisioned troops are a huge resource. It’s the land or nothing.”
The Great Lord sighed in defeat. “Very well, Your Majesty. When can I have them?”
“It will take at least a moon cycle to bring them down from the north and re-equip them so that should give you plenty of time to arrange accommodation on your estate which is discrete and out of sight of spying eyes.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty; I shall wait for them to join my command before we move on Tarmin.”
“In that case I think you should make all haste back to your estate to make the preparations. I will make the arrangements for our agreement to be drawn up and for you to sign it before you leave. Good day, King Andron.”
“King Borman.” Great Lord Andron left the receiving room without bothering to bow and looking far more pleased with himself than he had been when he entered.
“That was well negotiated, My Lord,” said Rastor, coming forward and refilling Borman’s wine goblet. “That strip of land is probably the richest in Leersland save the southern horse pastures.”
“One way or another I intend to have more of Leersland than that one small strip.” He thought for a moment. “Rastor, I have a task for you. Ride to the north and collect the men and equip them the best you can from what we have stored in Northcoast. From there take them to the Great Lord’s estate, but keep well away from Malingar, I don’t want him to know I have more men so close. When you get to Andron’s estate make preparations to ride immediately but do not move until you receive my orders.”
“Yes, My Lord. But what do I do if Andron wants to attack Tarmin straight away and I haven’t heard from you?”
“Then stall him.” Rastor looked blank. “Say that your men are tired or aren’t ready, or the horses are sick.” Rastor still looked unconvinced. “For hellden’s sake, Rastor, use your imagination.” Borman sighed in irritation. “Say you have the flux or the bloody pox if you have to, but do not move from Andron’s estate until you have received my orders. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Good. In just over a moon cycle I will have two and a half thousand men ready to put me on the throne of Leersland, each one with his own personal invitation. Now all I need is for Callabris to return.”
*
Jarrul awoke to the sun shining in his eyes from the small grill in the wall high above his head. The rest of the room, which was in total darkness, smelt of blood and piss and the coldness of the stone floor made him shiver. He pulled himself into a sitting position and moved to the edge of the room so he could prop himself up against the wall of his cell. The effect of moving made his head swim and his stomach roil and bile rose in his throat. With an effort he swallowed it down until both had settled and closed his eyes, then opened them again to take in his surroundings. There wasn’t much to see. He was in a small stone cell, probably below ground, which had seen much use in the not so distant past.
He had very bad memories of such places and, despite the gloom, he lifted his hands and studied the scars he had received the last time he had been someone’s prisoner. The thought of what had happened to him then started to make him shake, and beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. Taking several deep breaths he forced his fear back down until the shaking stopped. This wasn’t Maladran’s questioning room, it was just a cell and whoever had put him in here had at least thought to leave some refreshments. He shuffled to the side of the door and investigated the tray which had been left for him; a wooden pot of watered wine and a platter of reasonably fresh bread and hard cheese. It wasn’t guest fare but it wasn’t food for the condemned either.
Jarrul started on his breakfast and tried to remember how he had come to be in his current situation. He clearly remembered riding from Tarmin to the Crosslands bridges with his escort, and then onto the border between Vinmore and Tarbis. From there they had ridden to the first town they had found, and he had presented his papers to the town elder. It was he who had arranged for them to be taken to Dartis, the main city of Tarbis, with a larger escort of soldiers. The ride through rolling farmland had been pleasant enough with his guard and the escort chatting amiably and sharing their rations. The only dark spot had been when he enquired as to the health of Prince Newn, an enquiry which had been met by total silence and hard looks.
He remembered riding into Dartis, a large city without walls which seemed to sprawl across a valley and up a hillside with the prince’s palace at the top. Like all cities it was full of bustle and activity with busy markets and teeming streets, but there was a tenseness about it which was strange, as if the people were waiting for something to happen. He recalled feeling uncomfortable and hoping that, whatever the populace were waiting for, didn’t happen whilst he was there.
His own escort had not been allowed into the palace, which was understandable, but he had been taken inside where he once again presented his papers. He remembered being shown into a comfortable waiting room with soft chairs and small tables with delicate ornaments and had been provided with an array of refreshments and a flagon of good Vinmorian red wine. As he drank the wine and waited he had wondered what in the goddess’s name was he doing there.
Before the night Tarraquin had tried to kill Maladran and discovered who she was he had been a simple huntsman; a good one but just a huntsman. Then over night he had become a rebel leader, a queen’s councillor and now a royal envoy. He had quickly swallowed the rest of his wine coming to the conclusion that he didn’t want to be there and so he had stood to leave. At that moment the door had opened and a steward in royal livery had led him from the comfortable waiting room to the more austere receiving chamber where the Regent waited to greet him.
As he sat in his dark cell he shook his head at the memory. He had been greeted warmly enough by the Regent, who had accepted his papers of introduction and had read the Queen’s scroll carefully, two times through. Then he shook his head and said no, Tarbis wouldn’t support the new queen to put down any internal dissent. He wasn’t sure what an envoy was meant to do under the circumstances, but he didn’t think they would just give up, so he’d asked to see Prince Newn. If he had been sure of his position he would have spotted the change in the Regent’s attitude, but he hadn’t, and when the Regent asked him to be seated and offered to share a new flagon of wine with him, he had almost felt relieved.
It was the wine of course, it had to be; it was the last thing he remembered. Suspiciously he stared into his half empty mug of watered wine and cursed himself for a fool. He was still staring into the dregs when there was a clatter outside his cell, and as he looked up, the door opened. Three gua
rds entered and Jarrul scrambled to his feet, blinking in the sudden brightness of the lantern light.
“My name is Captain Tangier,” said the tall officer who stepped into his cell. “You will come with me.”
Jarrul obeyed immediately and followed Tangier up the steps and out into the courtyard with the other two guards following behind. They crossed the courtyard, passing between the barracks and the kitchen with its mouth-watering smell of roasting meat, and over an open area before approaching a large forbidding building, crowned by monstrous stone creatures. Wishing that he was back in the safety of his cell, Jarrul followed the captain up the steps and into the hallway.
The inside of the building was very different than the outside and he gave a small sigh of relief. Instead of the prison he had been expecting, the inside of the building was decorated like a hunting lodge. It reminded him of High Lord Coledran’s lodge which he had often visited in the days when he had been a simple huntsman. The walls were made of wood panelling and were decorated with tapestries showing hunting scenes. Mounted heads of game animals decorated the walls, and the whole place smelled of polished wood and honey wax.
Captain Tangier stopped at a large door, opened it and beckoned Jarrul through into a comfortable sitting room with a number of soft chairs and small tables.
“His Highness will be with you shortly,” Tangier announced before he left the room, closing the door behind him. Jarrul listened for the door to be locked, but there was nothing, although he guessed that the guards would be standing outside the door ensuring that he didn’t try to escape. He looked around the room in puzzlement. Why had he been drugged and locked in a cell if he was going to be allowed to see Prince Newn after all? It really didn’t make sense.
When the door opened again Jarrul looked up, and then gave a cry of alarm before stepping hastily back behind a chair. In front of him stood a ferocious wild animal, the likes of which he had never seen before. The creature, which was covered in dark, matted fur, was heavily muscled and as tall as a man with long arms ending in sharp claws. It had the pointed snout, sharp teeth and flickering ears of a sly hunter, but with two tusks protruding from its lower jaw. The beast stared at Jarrul with almost human intelligence and took a step forward trailing the ragged remains of a cloak behind it.
It opened its mouth showing long, razor fangs but instead of a snarl the creature fought to make words. “Gry argg ggrew ergg.”
Jarrul blinked in surprise. “Pardon?”
The beast shook its head and tried again. “Gry argg grew eregr.”
Jarrul swallowed hard. “I’ve come to see Prince Newn.”
“Gry.”
“I’ve come to ask for his help.”
The beast raised its head and let out a series of howls which sounded to Jarrul like manic laughter. “Ggrool, Igr ggrant egren ggrel graslfgr, bugrr grew ggran grelp ggre.”
The creature moved forward as if to come around the chair that Jarrul was standing behind and Jarrul jumped back in alarm, grabbed one of the small tables with three legs and held it out in front of him in an effort to fend off the creature. The beast let out a howl of anger and frustration, and in one huge bound leapt onto the back of the chair, over the table Jarrul held and onto his chest bearing him to the ground. Jarrul screamed as the monster’s hot breath covered his face and its fangs snapped shut, a hand span in front of his eyes. The door burst open and the guards ran in shouting the prince’s name at the top of their voices. Still snarling the creature froze and then slowly backed off. Captain Tangier helped Jarrul to his feet whilst the other two guards stood to attention either side of the beast.
“Grru ggril grust grre! Grrage grim!”
Before Jarrul could ask what was going on, Tangier took hold of his arm and roughly pulled him towards the door, which one of the other guards had opened. Once outside he led the way to the main door, back down the steps and across the open area where two other guards joined them, falling in either side of Jarrul. Instead of escorting him back to his cell as he had expected they marched him to the far corner of the courtyard, where a large metal cage stood. One of the guards opened the door and stood back.
“You can’t put me in there!” said Jarrul, desperately.
Tangier ignored his protest, pushed him forwards into the cage and slammed the door shut behind him.
“That animal should be in here not me,” shouted Jarrul as the guards turned to go. “I’m the Queen’s envoy; I demand to see Prince Newn.”
The captain turned back with a brief look of sympathy on his face. “You’ve seen Prince Newn; it was he who ordered you to be put in here. Think yourself lucky, the last person who asked to see him was torn to pieces. You may not be comfortable but at least you’re safe from him in there.”
*
Tarraquin stepped into the council chamber to a scraping of chairs as her councillors stood and bowed. She took her place at the head of the table and waited until the scraping of chairs had subsided, looking around at her councillors to see who was awake and alert, and which ones had consumed too much wine the night before and were bleary-eyed. For once they all looked to be awake, including the master of the brewers and vintners guild who rarely came alive before mid morning. Lord Istan had taken the place next to hers and she gave him a brief smile before placing the sealed scroll she carried on the table between them. Jarrul’s and Malingar’s chairs remained empty, and once again she wished that they were there to advise her.
“My lords, guildmasters, gentlemen, I bid you good morning. I assume you have spent the time since our last meeting considering King Vorgret’s proposals?”
“We have, Your Majesty,” responded Guildmaster Jobes as he pushed back his chair and stood. He was a huge man with bulging muscles and a head which seemed to be balanced on his broad shoulders without a neck in between. As he stood he towered over the guildmaster from the metal workers and smiths’ guild, almost pushing him to one side and even the jolly brewer looked insignificant next to him.
“Your councillors have elected me spokesman.” He looked at the others as if daring them to contradict him but he wasn’t the sort of man to gainsay. “Your Majesty, your councillors have discussed King Vorgret’s offer at length and have considered what the advantages and disadvantages might be. More than that, we have conferred with those who have a better knowledge of Essenland through past trading links and travel. We are all in agreement that it would be beneficial to reopen trade with Essenland, which, since your father’s death, has been greatly reduced. Leersland produces many things which would be attractive to the people of Essenland and the copper and silver from their mines would bring more work to our craftsmen.”
“I assume that the carter’s guild would carry the goods between here and Essenland and the metal workers guild would control the flow of copper and silver?” asked Tarraquin acerbically.
“Madam, that is what the guilds are for. We have also considered the security of Leersland and the possible threat from the fanatic Tallison and his southern nomads. Whilst Your Majesty sits very prettily on the throne, a king would give us better protection from invasion and insurrection.”
If the guildmaster had anything else to say he didn’t get a chance as Tarraquin shot to her feet tipping her chair over with a crash behind her. She picked up her knife and drove it into the top of the table where it stood vibrating with a low hum for a few moments.
“How dare you!” she said in a cold fury. “How dare you question my ability to rule just because I am a woman! I have as much ability and strength as any man, and looking around the pathetic rabble who sit at this table, more than most. You talk about protecting the kingdom from invasion and insurrection when all you are really thinking is how to line your own pockets. If anything the kingdom needs to be protected from the likes of you, small minded idiots who cannot see that Essenland has changed and can think no further than the end of their purse strings. Get out! Now! This council is dissolved.”
Nobody moved. “Guards!”
The chamber door opened and six guards armed with halberds entered. The councillors looked around in agitation and then at Guildmaster Jobes, waiting for him to do something but he just stood there looking shocked.
“You are dismissed,” said Tarraquin firmly.
The guards took a step forward and lowered their weapons. With a sudden screech of chair legs on stone the councillors stood and hurried from the room. The guards followed them out and closed the door behind them.
“That didn’t go as well as it could have done,” said Lord Istan quietly. He stood and righted Tarraquin’s chair before moving to the dresser and pouring two goblets of well watered wine. He put one in front of the Queen and retook his seat.