by Martin Owton
Exile
The Nandor Tales
Book One
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialog are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 Martin Owton
Published by Tickety Boo Press
www.ticketyboopress.co.uk
Edited by Andrew Angel
www.andrewangel.co.uk
Copy-edited by Emma Compton
Cover Art by Gary Compton
Book Design by Big River Press Ltd
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
‘Exile’ took a long time to write and a long time to get right so there are a lot of people who had a hand in it, some of whom I haven’t seen for ages, so if I miss anyone I apologise and thanks for your help. Firstly I would like to thank my long-time trusty critique partner Patrice Sarath, the T-Party Writing Group and Rushmoor Writers. Many people read early drafts of ‘Exile’ and offered comments; I would like to particularly recognise Gaynor and Sue, Mad Kate, Mike Brunavs, Dr Alex Chatterley and Helen Anderton. My agent Ian Drury took a chance on me, I thank him for his support and hard work. I thank my wife for her patience and support, my webmaster Robin and finally, Gary Compton for sharing the vision.
Martin Owton
THE EXILE OF DARIEN
by Martin Owton
PROLOGUE – THE BETRAYAL OF DARIEN
Lord Tirellan looked out across the valley from the doorway of the farmhouse he had taken as his command post. The campfires of the army of Caldon, his army, speckled the darkened land like the stars of the night sky. Beyond them a few lights showed where the town of Darien sat behind its walls in a curve of the river.
Too late, thought Lord Tirellan, his jaw clenched tight. He picked a lump of dried mud from the fur collar of his cloak. We should have been here ten days ago. The town was wide open then. But the quick thrust with his cavalry had been hindered by the unseasonable weather and the Earl of Darien’s small, but well-trained army. Now he lacked the heavy forces necessary for a successful siege. He crumbled the mud between his manicured fingers. And we are not allowed to fail.
He dug in a pocket of his waistcoat and found the leather wristband his emissary had returned with. It is time. He closed the door to the rain and the night, unfastened the heavy cloak and turned to the interior of the farmhouse.
He settled himself in his chair in the bedroom; he had given orders that he was not to be disturbed for anything less than the end of the world. No doubt his secretary was fuming at his exclusion, and at this very minute scribbling a letter to his true master, the Duke.
He put his hand to the steaming mug on the small table beside him; too hot to drink. He had brewed the contents himself from dried mushrooms and herbs bought the last time he was in the Holy City. It might well be some time before he could purchase more; the least he could expect was banishment by the High King for the attack on Darien. I shall miss the pleasures of the Holy City, but it will be worth it in the longer run. He shifted in his seat. Only if we take Darien swiftly though. How much will this clansman want? He had considerable latitude, but there were limits to Caldon’s resources. I can go to ten thousand crowns, perhaps twelve at most. I hope he’s not too greedy. He sat rehearsing his arguments and strategy as he waited for the infusion to cool.
He put his hand to the mug again; cool enough. Time to resolve the matter. He took a deep breath and, readying himself for the foul taste of the brew, drank deeply. It took a physical effort to keep from vomiting the bitter fluid straight back up. He snatched up a jug of clean water and rinsed his mouth three times before sitting back in his chair. Eyes fixed on the plain whitewashed wall; he sat very still and tried to concentrate on the slow rhythm of his breathing.
Gradually the noise of the camp faded and, it seemed to Tirellan’s eyes, a mist began to form in the corners of the room. He picked up the wristband and rubbed it slowly between his hands, trying to think only of the man who had worn it. The mist grew thicker until it filled the room. Lord Tirellan felt a brief moment of vertigo as the potion took him and his spirit broke free. He stood up and strode into the mist still grasping the wristband.
For a moment the swirling mist was all he could see. Then darker areas loomed up before him which became walls, the mist thinned and he stepped out into a candlelit room. Two men sat on a dark red carpet waiting for him. Lord Tirellan was momentarily taken aback at the second man, but quickly calmed himself.
“Good evening gentlemen,” he said evenly. “I am Lord Tirellan, the Duke of Caldon’s field commander.”
“We wait for you,” said one of the men, a squat muscular figure with fierce moustaches, his dark hair in a braid that reached the floor. “I am Tentra, clan chief. He is shaman. He will know if you lie. Sit with us.” His guttural accent so mangling the words that Lord Tirellan could barely understand him.
Lord Tirellan lowered himself to sit cross-legged on the carpet. He flicked a glance at the shaman. The tattoos on his shaven head seemed to swirl briefly in the candlelight. Lord Tirellan felt a cold shiver of fear as he looked into the unfathomable dark eyes that stared back. A reminder of the stakes.
“There will be no lies. A simple price for a service is all that I seek,” said Lord Tirellan.
“Not so simple that I break my word,” said Tentra.
“But once the choice is made the rest is simple,” said Lord Tirellan. This was one of the possibilities he had considered. “And I presume that the choice has been made since I was invited here. Do you wish to discuss the price? That’s what I came here for.” He folded his arms across his chest and waited for their reply.
“You presume big, Lord Tirellan,” said Tentra with a scowl.
“I presume that you are realists. You must know that we outnumber you, and that you have little prospect of relief.”
“We are not afraid to fight you.”
“The courage of the clans is well known, but ultimately you will lose and you will die, and for what? This is not your fight. Has Darien become a clan territory? Did you bring your warriors so far to have them buried in an unmarked pit?”
Lord Tirellan watched Tentra’s face intently. The last thing he wanted to do was push the clansman into a show of defiance. Tentra spoke a few words to the shaman in a harsh tongue that Lord Tirellan could not understand. The shaman replied with a longer speech. Tentra was silent for a moment then looked at Lord Tirellan. “What is the price?” he said.
“Five thousand crowns,” said Lord Tirellan.
“Not enough.”
“Seven thousand.”
“Eight.”
Lord Tirellan took a deep breath and set his face to stifle the smile. “Very well, eight thousand.”
“In gold.”
“In gold.”
“Five thousand now.”
“Five thousand as soon as my representative can get it to you.” His emissary had been optimistic of being able to re-enter Darien. Lord Tirellan silently hoped that optimism was not misplaced.
“One thing more.” Tentra’s eyes glittered in the candlelight. “All Darien soldiers die.”
Lord Tirellan was silent for a moment as he thought about the codes of war and the implications of Tentra’s demand.
“All die,” said Tentra.
“A small price to pay,” said Lord Tirellan permitting himself a smile this time. “When can you move?”
“When you pay us. We have gold, we open gates.”
“Excellent,” said Lord Tirellan. “Then I think our business is concluded. I’ll bid you goodnight, gentlemen.” He stood up and turned toward
s the wall of mist that hung just beyond the carpet. As the clouds closed around him he allowed himself a sigh of relief. A deal my Lord of Caldon will be happy with I think.
***
Ivo, Earl of Darien, knelt before the altar of Martis, his sword laid at his side. Unable to sleep for another night, he had decided to spend the hours until dawn in the temple that adjoined his apartments in the hope that the Soldiers’ God would show him some way to save his people and town.
A sound that rose above the steady drip of rainwater interrupted his prayers. He held his breath and gave all his attention to listening for a repeat. Again. This time he had no doubt. The main gate of the castle was being opened. He seized his sword, grabbed a candle lantern from its niche and ran for the courtyard.
He hauled open the door and stared out at the dark courtyard. The light of the lantern showed him little beyond the wet cobbles and falling rain. All was quiet; too quiet. Where was the gate sentry? He should have reacted to the lantern.
I’ll flog him if he’s sleeping in some dry corner. He advanced a few steps, lantern held high, searching for anything that would give a clue to the sentry’s whereabouts. A dog barked followed by another. From beyond the gate came the clatter of horses on the cobbles of the market square. Torchlight flickered through the dark tunnel of the gateway. The blood froze in Ivo’s veins. Three shapes detached themselves from the dark bulk of the gatehouse and ran towards him. The lantern showed him enough to identify them as clansmen. He turned and fled for the guards’ barrack room barely closing the door before his pursuers.
“To arms! We are betrayed,” he cried as heavy blows crashed against the stout door at his back.
Within a few heartbeats the Earl’s guard were roused. Men pulled on boots, groped under pallets for weapons and armour and lit torches from the night lanterns.
“What’s happening, my Lord?” Eamon, blademaster of Darien, appeared at Ivo’s side.
He must sleep in his mail to be ready so quickly, thought Ivo.
“Gate’s open. The clansmen have turned. Horsemen in the marketplace.”
“We must shift them, my Lord. We can’t defend the castle otherwise.”
“I agree,” said Ivo. There was another crashing impact on the door.
“We have to get to them before they get in here,” said Ivo. “Sergeant!”
The guard sergeant stepped forward at Ivo’s call. “My Lord.”
“Form the men up.”
The sergeant turned to the soldiers behind him. “Form two columns and spread when you’re through the door.” The men lined up smartly, swords drawn. “Ready, my Lord.”
The pounding on the door ceased.
Ivo looked at Eamon and nodded. The blademaster’s face was expressionless. He knows our chances as well as I do, thought Ivo as he took his place in the second rank of the column beside him.
“Open the door, Sergeant.”
The guard sergeant lifted the locking bar from its cradle and another man hauled the door wide open. The two columns of soldiers charged through into the courtyard and spread out in an arc with Earl Ivo at the focus.
The courtyard was filled with Caldon’s soldiers. The torches they carried showed their ranks to be at least three deep with cavalry behind them. The front rank of infantry dropped to kneel; their spears levelled at the Darien men. Behind them a rank of archers, arrows nocked, waited. Ivo, his stomach ice, took in the scene and then threw down his sword.
Oh my son. I have failed you.
Beside him Eamon stared at the enemy, his face blank as if he saw nothing. Very slowly he drew his sword and let it slip from his fingers. All along the Darien line weapons clattered to the cobbles. All was still for a moment. Then a harsh voice cried an order from behind the ranks of soldiers and the archers loosed their arrows.
CHAPTER 1
The tavernkeeper pushed the potboy out of the backdoor of the Black Lamb. “Run and fetch the guard, right now.” He reached for the blackthorn cudgel that hung on the back of the kitchen door and returned to the common room where he carefully took down his treasured mirror from behind the counter. There were three people left in the common room and two of them were trouble. The tables were littered with mugs, some still half-full, that his customers had abandoned in their hurry to be out of harm’s way.
At a table in the middle of the room sat Marek, the Earl’s Blademaster, and Davo. Marek drained his mug and thumped a massive fist on the table. “More ale,” he roared, throwing the mug across the room. The tavernkeeper filled a mug from the barrel and cautiously brought it to the table. The last time he had seen Marek in this mood it had taken six guardsmen to subdue him and the common room had been wrecked. He glanced at the third person in the room, the young stranger who had walked in an hour ago, and thought about warning him of the danger; but the tavernkeeper had no doubt if he did so he would become the object of Marek’s attention instead. He collected the empty mugs and retreated behind the relative safety of the counter, counting the minutes until the guard could arrive.
The young stranger looked no more than twenty. His mud-splashed legs showed he had arrived on foot rather than horseback, though his clothes were of good quality, and a sword hung at his left side in an old black leather scabbard. He had spread his travel-stained cloak across a chair beside the fire to dry and then sat alone at a small table in a corner with a bowl of mutton stew and a mug of ale. Sitting back in his chair, eyes half-closed, he appeared to be nodding off to sleep.
Davo was staring at him too. The tavernkeeper thought Davo was almost more dangerous for all that he was two heads shorter than Marek. Davo had quick hands and a quicker tongue, and liked to play tricks on people. Davo started fights, and Marek finished them.
Davo scooped a lump of mud from his boot and tossed it at the stranger’s cloak. It landed squarely in the centre. The young man did not stir. A second blob landed beside the first. Still he did not move. Annoyed by the lack of response, Davo looked around for something more offensive to toss at the still figure. His eyes lighted upon a large beetle crawling across the floor. Smiling mischievously he picked up the insect and gently lobbed it towards the bowl of stew. The somnolent figure flicked out his right hand and caught the beetle just above the bowl then looked over at the grinning Davo and Marek.
“What're you looking at, sonny?” Davo sneered.
“A man who eats insects.” His voice was light with a slightly foreign accent.
He flicked his wrist and the beetle flew across the room again to land in Davo's half-full beer mug. Davo swore and, leaping to his feet, threw the mug at the youngster, who tumbled off his chair avoiding it and rolled in the rushes and sawdust on the floor. Davo stepped forward reaching beneath his jacket to the knife at his belt. The young man put his right hand on the hilt of his sword, and stared up at him.
Davo stopped and looked back at Marek with a grin. “The lad's got a blade, Marek.”
“So he has, Davo. Looks a bit large for him, don't it. Reckon we ought to take it off him before he hurts hisself.”
The young man rose to his feet, giving Marek and Davo the opportunity to size him up. He was two hand-widths shorter than Marek and lacked the big man's bulk in the shoulder, though he moved with an easy grace. He wore a loose flowing long-sleeved shirt of dark blue and black trousers cut snugly. He was clean-shaven and his dark hair was long enough to be caught by a thong in a short ponytail at the nape of his neck. Hand on his sword hilt; he looked calmly at the two grinning soldiers.
Marek stared back for a long moment then stood up, pushing aside the tables; he stretched himself to demonstrate his considerable size, and drew his own blade, tossing aside the scabbard. The young man flicked his blade clear of the gated scabbard and waited for the big man to make his move, the weapon resting lightly in his hand. Something about his stance and calm made the tavernkeeper think this fellow knows what he’s at. A gated scabbard too, a crown to a penny he’s no mug.
Marek eyed the sword scornfully and raised his own heavy blade. He was big and strong and that was the way he fought; it had been enough to keep him cock of the walk in the Earl's guard for years, and he was well used to being the best swordsman for leagues around. He stepped forward swinging his sword right-handed at the young man's neck. The young man ducked lithely under the blow, and his blade flicked out to stab Marek’s right foot. Marek yelped with pain and drew back a moment cursing before swinging a chest-high slash. The young man danced backwards and Marek struck air. Marek stepped back half a pace and rebalanced.
Marek’s favourite move was a heavy single-handed swing to the neck followed by a left hook to his opponent's stomach. The tavern keeper could see him trying to work into position for it; circling to his left, feinting a thrust and then stepping in with the right-handed swing. To his surprise the young man lunged forward and then, using the strength Marek put into the blow, flicked Marek's blade with his own over his head as he ducked. The momentum of the stroke threw Marek off balance and he stumbled with his back half-turned to his opponent. Marek caught himself, turned and took the young man's blade full in the throat.
Marek would have screamed if he still had a larynx. Instead he gurgled as the blood sprayed from the severed arteries. He clutched at his neck in a vain attempt to hold his life in, stumbled over a stool and fell on his face in a widening pool of blood.
The stranger watched calmly and then turned to look at Davo. Davo, eyes wide with terror, looked first at him, then down at the dying Marek, and ran for the door. The tavernkeeper still stood behind his counter clutching his blackthorn, staring in disbelief at his blood-splashed common room. The young man reached down and wiped his blade on Marek's jerkin before sheathing it.
The door crashed open.
“No-one move,” a harsh voice commanded. Half a dozen guardsmen in scruffy red livery over chainmail rushed in, swords drawn, and surrounded the stranger. The young man stared disdainfully at the soldiers, his right hand resting on the hilt of his sheathed sword until he saw the crossbowman who had followed them, then his hand fell away. The guard captain, a stocky middle-aged man with greying hair and a bristling moustache, strode into the room.