by Clare Smith
The guard strode into the corner and dragged Rothers to his feet placing the rough halter which hung on a nearby peg around his neck and yanking him forward to stand behind Tallison. With a flourish the Rale of Sandstrone stepped through the door flaps of his pavilion and out into the hot afternoon sun. As soon as he did so his bodyguards fell in around him. They were all big men, related by birth, heavily armed and sworn to lay down their lives for him if necessary. In return they had the best of everything. Their well appointed barracks were in the Rale’s private compound, their horses and weapons were Leersland’s best and their women were the most beautiful.
When Sandstrone’s ill equipped army had fought and died in Leersland’s southern province they had remained behind to protect Tallison, but when the army returned with the spoils of war, theirs was the first choice of weapons, horses and captives. Apart from protecting the Rale and ensuring that those who spoke out against his rule never did so again, their only other duty was the interrogation and slaughter of prisoners, a task they carried out with consummate brutality.
A large troop of the bodyguard went ahead to clear the way for Tallison, and Rothers followed behind, being careful to keep the rope around his neck slack. He hadn’t seen the city of tents and shacks since the fighting with Leersland had ceased, and he had been paraded through the streets as part of the celebrations, but he was shocked by the deterioration in the place in such a short time. The makeshift city had always been squalid with the tumbledown shacks pressed closely together to prevent them from collapsing, and the walkways between the tents strewn with refuse. The smell of unwashed bodies, sewage and rotting matter had always been rank, but this was worse than he remembered.
Collapsed hovels intermingled with shacks that barely remained upright. Scraps of furniture, most of it broken, lay in small piles along with dirty mattresses and vermin ridden bedding. Many of the small tents which had held these few belongings had disappeared to be replaced by lines of open-fronted, canvas shelters where everyone could be seen and watched. Each had its own communal cooking pot which stood cold and empty at the end of each narrow walkway. The smell had been enhanced by the stench of rotting corpses coming from somewhere near the abandoned city and where once there had been picket lines of horses there wasn’t an animal to be seen, except for the swarms of scurrying gnawers.
The people watched the Rale’s procession pass with blank eyes and the occasional muttered curse. Most of them were women looking haggard and drawn with dirty, half starved children clutching at their hands. Interspersed amongst them were old men and a few younger ones with bloody bandages or missing limbs. They looked at the bodyguards with resentful eyes and at either him or the Rale or perhaps both with undisguised hatred. His life in Tallison’s pavilion might be degrading and he might always be hungry but it was nothing compared to this.
The bodyguards pushed their way through the almost silent crowd until they reached an open area to one side of the ramshackle city, where a stone platform had been built at one end. With his guards surrounding him Tallison climbed onto the platform and Rothers sat at his feet as he had done before, grateful that he had at least been allowed to keep his clothes on this time. Some of the other guards herded people into the packed area where they waited sullenly for the Rale to speak. If Tallison was at all concerned about the people’s hostility towards him, he showed no signs as he stepped up onto the second level of the platform where he could be seen by those at the back of the crowd. He raised his hands and the slight murmuring stopped.
“People of Sandstrone, beloved of Talis, the one true god, I bring you news of great joy, news to lift your hearts, news for you to celebrate with the grain and wine I have ordered distributed from the store houses.” The crowed stirred and whispered in surprise and he let it run for a while sensing a change in the mood of the crowd.
“Today you will have bread and grain and meat for your cooking pot, so that every stomach will be full. There will be wine for your cups and milk for your children so that you may all celebrate the blessing which Talis, may his name be praised, has showered on his people. He waited again as sporadic cheering broke out in the crowd.
“Tonight the men of our glorious army will return to their homes to bless their wives with their seed and create new life in the image of Talis, may his name live forever.” Enthusiastic cheering bordering on hysteria swept the crowd.
“People of Sandstrone celebrate, our enemy, the King of Leersland is dead and his evil magician with him. The unbelievers of this corrupt and unholy land have revealed their cowardly nature and have chosen a woman to rule them. Today we celebrate and tomorrow we take the land back which is rightly ours from those who are so profane that they abase themselves before a woman. Come, let all who truly believe in Talis, the one true god, feast and prepare for victory over the unbelievers.”
The crowd roared their approval and Tallison raised his hands to their adoration, smiling like a benign grandfather. Rothers put his head in his hands and wept for the second time that day.
*
It had been a long day and he was as hungry as a sly hunter in winter. Vorgret threw his crown onto one of the padded chairs by the hearth and collapsed into the other with a grunt, stretching his legs out and waiting for a servant to remove his muddy boots. Another came with a bowl of warm water and several soft cloths which he used to wash his face and hands, but the smell of burning flesh still clung to him. He needed a bath but that would have to wait. Despite being hungry he hoped that there wouldn’t be roast meat on the menu. It wasn’t that he was squeamish, far from it; most days he watched one of his subjects being mutilated as a punishment or put to death, but the smell of his cousin’s rotting corpse being cremated had really turned his stomach.
He still didn’t believe the guards’ excuses of why it had taken them so long to return Gellidan’s body to him from the place where he had been murdered, but as the guards were from the Enclave, he had decided not to force the answers from them. Instead he had kept them waiting, wondering what he would do to them, and had then sent them packing, taking their news to the High Master. On top of that, he’d had to wait for the body to be prepared and the priests to go through their mumbo-jumbo so by the time they were ready to burn the body, the smell had been nauseating, a bit like Gellidan himself. He had never liked the boy but he had been family, so he had been annoyed enough to issue a proclamation of death against the renegade acolyte who had murdered him, and offer a reward for the capture of the young magician who had been with him.
Vorgret scratched at the scar on his face and wished he had more time to search for this Jonderill. He was good at bringing young magicians to their power, as Sadrin had proven, and having two magicians would make him almost untouchable but for the moment he had other priorities. There had been unrest in the kingdom; his lazy and greedy subjects had objected to his new taxes and forced conscription into the army. In the north of Essenland the inhabitants of a small town had rioted, and whilst Dorba had burnt the town to the ground and sent the few survivors to his silver mines, such resistance to his rule was disturbing. Perhaps he should have made examples of the survivors instead of being merciful and killing them outright. He might ask Sadrin what he thought.
Behind him there was a clatter of dishes as a line of servants entered the room and covered the table with platters of food, baskets of bread and fruit and a large flagon of wine. Once they had delivered their food, they all hurried away except for his food taster, a precaution that Sadrin had insisted upon. Vorgret heaved himself out of the chair and sauntered over to the table where his food taster lifted the lid of each platter and sampled the food. The man was a minor noble and his family resided in one of Vorgret’s mansions in the city. They would be returned to him unharmed if he survived. The man tasted the flagon of wine and, as he didn’t look like he had been poisoned, Vorgret dismissed him to the charge of the guard who stood outside.
The king poured himself a bowl of the thick soup with pieces of m
eat in it and took his seat, tearing off chunks of bread and ladling soup and bread into his mouth together. When he had finished that, he turned his attention to the platter of rolled rainbow swimmer fillets in a cream sauce. Not bothering with a plate, he stabbed the delicate fish with his dinner knife and mopped the sauce up with more bread. Before he had finished, a knock came at the door and he pushed the platter away in annoyance as a nervous servant entered and bowed.
“Your Majesty, there is an envoy here from Leersland who wishes to speak to you on behalf of the Queen of Leersland.”
“Is it the same one as last time?”
“I believe so, Your Majesty.”
Vorgret thought for a moment, absently pulling the platter of forest fowl pieces towards him. “Tell Sadrin to attend the meeting in private, I would value his opinion afterwards, and then send the envoy in. Oh, and pour me some wine before you go.”
The servant poured the wine, bowed and left as quickly as he could. Vorgret emptied the goblet and turned his attention back to the platter in front of him. The fowl were roasted but they didn’t smell too much like a burning corpse, so he took a leg and dipped it into a bowl of spicy sauce and took a bite. The meat was hot and succulent and the juices dripped down the side of his chin. He was on his third piece when there was a knock on the door and the servant showed the envoy into the room.
“Lord Istan, if you have brought me good news then you are welcome. Sit and join me for dinner.”
Istan was tired, dusty, thirsty and hungry but the appearance of the table covered in half eaten platters of food congealing in thick sauces turned his stomach. He looked at the king holding the leg of some sort of bird in his hand with the fat running down his fingers, and regretted not being more truthful when Tarraquin had asked for a description of the King of Essenland.
“I thank Your Majesty, but just a goblet of wine if I may?”
Vorgret nodded in the direction of the flagon and left Istan to pour it himself whilst he continued eating. “Well? What does the Queen have to say for herself?”
“Her Majesty, Queen Tarraquin, has considered your kind offer of marriage and the gift of arms and trade which would come with it. She has presumed upon me to accept your offer once a formal agreement is concluded. The queen also wishes me to convey her affection and to advise you that she will visit in person to make the arrangements for the ceremony as soon as she has settled some affairs at home.”
“How long will that take?”
“I cannot speak for Her Majesty although I know she is eager to meet with you.”
“Not good enough. Tell her I want her here, at my side and in my bed within two moon cycles. We can agree the details after we have consummated the marriage. That’s the way things are done in Essenland.”
“Her Majesty has provided details of what she would expect from such an agreement and in particular the settlement between any children from the marriage.” Istan held out the small scroll which Tarraquin had given him.
Vorgret took the scroll with a greasy hand and dropped it carelessly amongst the platters on the table. “You tell the lady that I’m the king and I will decide which of our whelps will get what. Tomorrow you can meet with my councillors and talk about trade agreements and arms but the final decision is mine. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Good. Then go and let me finish my dinner in peace.”
He waved the leg bone he was holding in the direction of the door and then dropped it onto the table as he pulled a dish of sweetmeats towards him. Istan bowed briefly and left, relieved to be out of the king’s presence. A few moments later a panel in the wall slid open and Sadrin entered, his new body slave following him like a shadow.
“Sadrin, I see you have my gift to you in training. Have you fucked her yet?”
The magician frowned slightly at the king’s crudeness but then returned the neutral smile he usually wore to hide his true feelings. “No, My Lord, not yet but I have named her. I have called her Nyte.”
“You’ve what? I gave her to you to exercise your prick and to practice your magic on, not to turn into a pet!” He gave a grunt of disdain and pointed to the scroll on the table. “Well, what do you think to that?”
Sadrin picked the scroll up avoiding the sauce which dripped from one end whilst he unrolled it and carefully read the contents. “She makes reasonable demands in exchange for her virginity and her kingdom.”
Vorgret burst out laughing and pointed at the slave. “You, pour your master some wine to restore his sense of humour.”
She scurried forward to do as she was told and held the goblet up for him to take before hurrying back to her place behind the magician. Sadrin let the scroll roll back up as he sipped the rich red wine.
“I have no need of bits of parchment when I can take Leersland and their queen whenever I want without signing treaties or agreeing who will have what on my deathbed.”
“Of course you can, my liege, the same as I can take this slave any time I wish, but wouldn’t it be better if she came to your bed willingly? If you take her by force you have, at best, a whore, but if she gives herself to you of her own free will, you have something very special; your very own queen.”
Vorgret laughed again but quieter this time. “You have some odd ideas for a black robe, Sadrin but I’ll think about it. Now, today has been a day for scrolls; I have received this from my brother.” He wiped his hands down the side of his breeches, took a scroll from the pouch at his waist and handed it to his magician. “At least we now know that the young magician and his murdering acolyte are hiding out in Vinmore, but isn’t that typical of Pellum, the gutless worm, a little bit of trouble turns up on his doorstep and he runs to his big brother to sort it out.”
“Actually he runs to his big brother to ask his black robe to sort it out.”
“Will you?”
Sadrin shrugged. “If you command me to I will but with so much unrest in the kingdom I think I would be better employed at your side.”
“Yes, you’re probably right. I’ll write back to Pellum and tell him not to be such a wimp. His kingdom is not really under any threat due to the presence of one white robe who is newly into his power, but if things become more serious then he only needs to ask and then he can call on the immediate assistance of both my army and my magician.”
“Really?”
“No, of course not, but Pellum and my half sister are such fools that they will believe anything I say.”
They both laughed and raised their goblets in a toast to the gullible.
*
Malingar pulled his horse to a halt at the crossroads, dismounted and let it drink at the trough provided for those who travelled the roads to Wallmore. Usually the animals would be hot and tired after the long climb from Northshield’s southern border, but Malingar had made his way from Tarmin at a leisurely pace. With Tarraquin gone and unlikely to return, there was no real hurry for him to inform his master that Leersland was ready for him to take whenever he wanted to. His delay in leaving Tarmin and then his slow journey had given him ample time to consider what he should do and what his future should look like.
The unfortunate thing was that the time spent weighing up options had not resulted in him reaching a decision and now, with Wallmore less than half a day away, he needed to make his mind up as to where his loyalties lay. His problem was Tarraquin. She was everything he wanted in a woman; intelligent, determined, decisive and with just enough vulnerability to make a man feel like a hero. The fact that she was beautiful and a queen made her irresistible.
With feelings like that why had he let her ride away, knowing that, at best, she would spend the rest of her life a prisoner guarded by stone beasts? Then there was his other problem; his loyalty to Borman. He had joined the king’s guard two summers before he should have done; lying about his age and working harder than any other recruit in order to keep his age hidden. When his father came looking for him to take his under aged son home, Bo
rman had been so impressed by his audacity that he had kept him on. He was a troop leader four summers later and appointed captain of the false mercenary army just two summers after that.
His appointment as captain of the mercenaries was the proudest moment in his life, and then Borman had ruined it all by taking his two brothers and his sister hostage to ensure his continuing loyalty. Of course they weren’t treated as hostages; there were no prison cells or physical threats, but they were hostages none the less. Borman had even let him see them on his last visit to the king’s palace to see how happy and well cared for they were, but that just made things worse. He had always been absolutely loyal to Borman, but the king had betrayed his trust.
He remounted his horse and took the north road, letting his mount gallop along the springy turf at the side of the road, whilst the wind blew his tangled thoughts away. When his horse started to blow he reined it back to a steady walk, and settled back to consider the one firm decision he had made. Tarraquin had left him in command of Leersland until Istan returned from Essenland, but it would have been very easy to ensure that Istan, like Tarraquin, never returned. That would leave him to rule Leersland alone.