When the Terramian fleet was caught in a raging storm on one such trading misadventure, the King’s flagship began taking water. The visibility was so poor and the water so treacherous that the flagship sank before the other ships could reach them. The few survivors that were rescued talked of the terrifying tentacles of a demon encircling the boat and crushing its timbers before dragging it down to the deep.
If there was one blessing, if at all, it was that all of the King’s senior military officers were having dinner in the captain’s quarters and all went down with the ship. The newly ordained young king was able to surround himself with trusted friends and advisors that had grown up with him around the castle: Urien, Dorf and Keilif. They were his most trusted companions; good men who understood their young king well. His mother also proved an insightful guiding influence until she passed away some years later. But perhaps the greatest influence over him was his wife, Queen Laila; she was his rock. It never ceased to amaze him how perceptive she was. She always had an easy way with people and always seemed to have the right answer; she made Armanar a better king and father, no doubt.
And now, with the exception of the most white-haired and wizened of the realm, he was the only king that most knew or remembered. If the King looked back upon the past forty years on the throne he could not be more pleased by the period of relative peace and prosperity that had seemingly flourished during his reign. He was well loved by the people, who’d also prospered through new laws on land ownership, fair treatment acts and an open system of arbitration.
But now he felt betrayed, like a fool. He accepted now that perhaps it had just been a façade; he’d been outmanoeuvred without even knowing it. Had he been blind to the growing threat from Gamura, the Fire Realm? He was not so sure. Was he too trusting in the good of men? Perhaps. Another king may have had spies watching and reporting on threats within and beyond the borders of Terramis. But that was not his way. No one would blame him for sure, and after all perhaps this final unfolding culmination of events was unavoidable. And perhaps the true measure of his worth as a king would be tested in the days and months ahead. He hoped he would be equal to it.
He thought back to one of the last conversations he’d had with his father. The young prince was bitter that his father was leaving on another one of his overseas expeditions.
“Father, how can you be a true king if you are never in the realm? How can the people know and respect you?”
His father turned angrily towards him.
“It’s because I seek allegiances that the realm remains safe. Because I grow trading relationships, that the people may prosper. One day, when you are king, you’ll understand.”
But the young prince was open-minded and had seen something a few days earlier that shaped his beliefs.
“Surely a king should be among his people? Only then will he understand their needs, and can truly help them overcome their challenges and better themselves. I saw a peasant the other day. He had created a wooden machine with a wheel to punch holes in the ground and plant seeds at an even spacing. It was pulled by a donkey. Perhaps this one man could sow a field just as quickly as five farmers doing it painstakingly by hand.”
“Don’t be a fool, Armanar. The average peasant does not know his rear from his elbow. They do as their lord instructs them. They aspire to nothing more than a bowl of gruel at the end of each day and, bath once a month. It’s best we tell them what they want. Anything more than that and you’ll have an uprising.”
The Prince stood his ground, furious and squeezing his fingers into fists and whitening his knuckles. “A realm where people can dream of a better life, can pursue ideas, would surely be advantageous to all. Who says only the nobility know what is right for everyone?”
His father swung round angrily and pointed his finger at his son’s chest.
“Enough, Armanar. I don’t want to hear any more of this nonsense. My role is to keep the jackals from our door. I will discuss this no more!”
Armanar bit his lip. When he was king, the customs would change. Yes, and he still believed he was right to this day.
*
Daylon sat with the artist and guided his hand. Daylon was a small man, perhaps five foot four. Thin, his eyes sunk deep into their sockets, his face gaunt as if he were constantly sucking in his cheeks. He was overflowing with nervous energy, which perhaps burnt off the copious amount of food he could eat in a single sitting. His hands constantly fidgeting, perhaps like a small shrew by the riverbank nervously going about its business, its senses always alert for signs of danger. Every now and again his head would flick to the right or left as if startled by a noise or sound. It was an odd experience for someone not used to it but it was born of his foresight, just a moment but enough. He’d flick his head to the left, looking surprised. You’d follow his gaze, pause, but nothing would happen. Then a book would fall off the shelf or a door would open. Perhaps he was screwing with you. Perhaps he’d heard the footsteps, maybe not. His wonky eye completed this disorientation. Not such that it made him look like a cross-eyed buffoon. Just enough for you to feel compelled to look over your shoulder to see what he was looking at. You’d turn back round to see a cocked head and a quizzical look on his face. Frankly spending too much time with Daylon often resulted in a neck ache that only Mrs Muggin’s medicinal compound could cure. Daylon always said it was a blessing and a curse. If there was a maiden that took his fancy he could admire her without her feeling too conscious of his intentions. On the flip side, often when minding his own business in an alehouse, some oaf he’d hardly care to observe would approach his table and say, “You looking at me, mate? If you’ve got a problem let’s go outside and we’ll settle this like men!”
*
The artist was a young man. His name oddly was Art. Whether it was a nickname, or whether his name had defined him, Daylon did not know. When the guards had entered the square earlier, Art had immediately packed up and tried to leg it down a side alley. He was spritely and almost got away if it had not been for a cart of turnips blocking his path. One of the guards had just managed to grab his collar, then two of them sat on him while he struggled and thrashed about until a third had reassured him that he was not, in fact, in trouble. Though no one was quite sure as to what trouble he thought he was in. Convinced, he calmed down, though it did not stop him trying to make another break for freedom when the guards were distracted by the barmaid of the Red Lion Inn who’d walked by. In the end they frogmarched him to the castle gripping his arms behind his back as Art continued to bleat and complain at the injustice of it all.
His fingers now worked tirelessly, scratching the charcoal on the parchment as he followed Daylon’s instructions. Daylon himself would close his eyes to recall the vision. The artist’s fingers were black, as were his palms that rubbed away any mistakes or adjustments that Daylon requested.
“The spire, it’s a little taller,” Daylon would say.
“The buttresses a little wider. The ivy a little thicker.”
But eventually he had no more comments to make. They both sat back.
“That’s it,” said Daylon, “that’s my vision.” He slapped the boy on his back. “You should be proud of your skill. It is a fine impression.”
*
In the council chamber there was a cacophony of raised voices as they reconvened when Daylon had completed the sketch. King Armanar gestured with his hand and gradually a hush fell among those present. He laid both hands on the table and scanned the room. He met the eyes of his military advisors, council members and the ambassadors of Windstrom and Aquamura.
“These are dark times my friends, perhaps the greatest peril the Four Realms has faced. Our options become more limited by the day. I do not believe we can avoid this battle that will no doubt befall us, even if we wanted to. The future of the Four Realms depends on us. We continue to ready Ampheus for siege. We will need to take stock of our provis
ions and arm our defences. We need to ensure the people from the surrounding villages and farms are accommodated in the castle.”
The King turned to his marshal. “Dorf, report!”
“Sire, the arsenals are full. The men continue to train. The barbicans and passageways are loaded with boulders, sand, lead, and we are readying tar and pitch.”
The King nodded. “Go over the defence plans one more time. Let’s make sure we do not miss anything. Gorath and his armies could be here within a month.
“We cannot sacrifice the council members. I suggest the ambassadors ready themselves to leave. You shall travel back to your realms and carry a word of warning. There you should be safe for the time being. But, let me state in no uncertain terms, if Ampheus falls, there will be no protection for the other realms. Soon Gorath will turn his attention to Windstrom and Aquamura.
“He will not cease until the Ancient Earth is within his dominion. Believe me, this world will reek of death, famine and plague and return to the darkest of ages that we thought we had left far behind us.
“With you I will send messages to your cities, Celestina and Lumines. These will urge their armies to make haste and come to the aid of Ampheus without delay. Ampheus has been a beacon of light and a haven for over two thousand years. It will not fall on my watch.”
A few heads nodded in agreement around the table. “Here, here! Troth to the Realms,” and fists pounded the solid oak table, as had been the way of generations of kings and noblemen in the past.
“Sire?” Heads turned to the Ambassador of Aquamura the ‘Water Realm’. He held out his hands to gesture to the council, and they appeared to shimmer from the bluish translucent tint of the Ambassador’s skin.
“I know it’s not been said, but everybody is thinking it. What of the Druids? Surely they will come to our aid for it is written: the Druids will rise again.”
The King frowned and his face darkened. “The Druids abandoned us a millennium ago. There is little hope they will come to save us; this is the time for the three realms to stand together against Gorath. It is the steady hand that holds the blade, a sure foot that braces to hold the line, the courage to step into the breach. In these things we must place our trust. Not Druids, that much I know.”
The King paused and changed tack. “Daylon, do you have the sketch?”
“I do, Sire.”
Daylon passed it round the table to the King.
King Armanar sat back in his chair and looked at the canvas for some time, as if studying every inch of the image.
He sighed, “I do not know this place.”
He passed it to his left and each at the table took a turn to view the image.
“Not I either, Sire.”
“Nor I.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“I’ve not seen anything like this in Windstrom.”
“No, Sire.”
It passed into the hands of the wizard. There was a moment. Perhaps a flicker in his eyes but only for the briefest of instants. But he shook his head.
Silence fell over the room.
“Ahem.”
A nervous cough was heard from the back of the room.
They turned to look at one of the castle guards.
“I apologise for interrupting, Sire. I know it is not my place to speak.”
The King shook his head.
“It is all right Tom; what have you to say?”
“Sire, I know this place. It is a small chapel near where I grew up. Perhaps three days’ ride from here. It’s in the Parish of St Martin’s. You may not know of it as it was burnt down ten years ago. Struck by lightning it was. It was always rumoured that it was a meeting place for a Druids’ grove. I believe that several may have perished, trapped in the chapel as it burst into flames.”
The King paused in thought once more.
“Could you guide us to this place?”
“Certainly, Sire.”
“Logar, Daylon. Take a unit of cavalry. Head to St Martin’s. Let’s see for ourselves what we find there.”
“Shall I join them?” asked the wizard.
“No, Ladryn, you stay here. I am sure there is plenty for you to do. Now, Logar, may the gods be with you, ride fast and sure, and let’s see if we can unravel the mystery of this chapel. We’ll reconvene the council on your return.”
Ladryn scurried away from the council chamber. He was muttering under his breath. Again the King had cast him aside and did not listen to him. He was a wizard for God’s sake. He should be given more respect than this.
Ladryn was an awkward fellow. He had a puppet-like walk with his arms and legs seemingly prancing mechanically in front of him as if extended from strings. His head appeared oversized for his body and would bobble about as he scuttled through the castle, accentuating this effect. His features resembled those of Mr Punch: pale white skin and his beaky nose and cheeks mottled by red veins busting to the surface of his skin. Children of the castle would sometimes follow behind him, imitating him, risking his wrath and a swipe of the staff he carried. He was not at ease with other people and had few friends within the castle. But that did not bother him. He was a wizard, and for that he deserved their respect, even if sometimes they forgot this.
Chapter 2
Parish of St Martin’s
The guards mounted their horses at the stables behind the castle. Logar led his stallion out of the stables and approached Daylon who was already perched on his horse.
“Seer, this better not be a wild goose chase. There are pressing matters to be dealt with at Ampheus. The last thing I need is a scenic tour of the countryside. You are lucky that you have the King’s backing, else you’d be back in the cells where you belong.”
Daylon sighed, “Logar, whatever you think of me I urge you not to doubt my intentions. Rest assured I hold the faith in me shown by the King with great regard and gratitude. You may not believe it, it is of no consequence but my actions will always be in the best interests of His Majesty and my adoptive home.” With that he dug his heels into the flanks of his horse and ambled down the thoroughfare to the main gate.
They passed round the castle’s inner walls. They were vast and proud, surrounding the whole of the city of Ampheus. They took a route that traversed around an outer alleyway with huge solid battlements made of enormous chiselled square stones. Soldiers ran busily along walkways carrying weapons: arrows, bows, swords, spears and baskets of stones. They were making their preparations for battle. Inside were rings and rings of smaller walls and fortifications.
Often they would peer though the doorways as they passed. Through the cracks they would catch glimpses of life in the castle. Inner garrisons, kitchens and stables or archways that led to inner alleyways and further defences. The castle’s broad circular towers rose above them. Brilliantly coloured flags with lions, unicorns, griffins and other mythical animals flapped in the breeze.
They passed a stable and watched a blacksmith pound metal over a hot fire. His skin black with soot and smeared with sweat.
Another building appeared to be an armoury. Inside were rows and rows of weapons held in racks. Further they passed the servants’ quarters, where women washed clothes in a stream that ran through the castle.
Scruffy, dirty children ran around and laughed. Girls played with rag doll toys, the small boys pretend fighting with wooden swords.
Everything happened around them. The whole castle felt like it had a pulse, a humming way of life. Everybody was wrapped up in it and nobody paid much attention at all to the knights on horseback leaving the city.
They rounded into a wide square adorned with the standards of the kingdom. It throbbed with activity, as it was the main thoroughfare in and out of the castle. Logar headed to the main gate, which was guarded by a huge portcullis. Then finally, there was an immense wooden drawbridge hewn from large oaks bolted
together by black coarse iron struts and rivets. It could be raised and lowered on any sign of danger by towering pulleys either side of the gate.
When they neared, Logar nodded to the guards as they passed through the portcullis, their chargers’ hooves changing from a sharp clattering on the cobbles to a dull thud as they cantered over the drawbridge that spanned the lake.
Once across the water, Logar urged the horses into a gallop and they thudded up a muddy track that left Ampheus and led through the meadows that stretched out to the east of the castle.
Daylon followed the cavalry unit of twenty knights. His cloak flapped in the rush of the wind as the stallion’s strides stretched to cover the ground. He reflected on his exchange with Logar. He did not hold any grudge. He knew knights were bound by a code of honour and chivalry but it meant at times they came across as a little pompous and arrogant, unyielding and inflexible, and they judged everyone by the same standards.
He chuckled under his breath. Frankly, he thought to himself, living a life like that would just make life a tad dull. Good luck to them.
*
Daylon did not remember when he’d first realised he had the gift of foresight. His mother would say as a baby he’d gurgle at her to get her attention and then point a chubby little finger at something. Then the pot would boil over on the stove or a dragonfly would buzz against the window. She’d hug him and smile and call him her little wizard but she never spoke about it to anyone. People could be suspicious of anyone who was different and you never knew when they’d start burning or dunking witches or wizards again. Best to keep it within the family.
But slowly the townsfolk did take notice and typically for the wrong reasons. Not because he saved the town’s granary from burning to the ground or the time he pulled the child away from under an out-of-control cart. No, it was his compulsion or addiction to gambling, or more precisely, to dice or chance.
As he cast the dice he’d call out a number between five and nine. Invariably he’d get it right. He’d clap his hands and gather up his winnings in his arms. He just knew what to call. Sore losers would accuse him of loading the dice, even though perhaps they’d provided the dice themselves.
Ampheus Page 2