by Martin Owton
***
“The wards were breached last night, my Lord,” said Ezrin. He stood before the table in a small wood-panelled study at the heart of Castle Sarazan. Facing him across the table, Lord Hercival, younger son of the Duke of Sarazan, sat back in a fine carved chair. His dark hair and finely chiselled features with a prominent hooked nose marking him as one in whom the blood of the Sarazan dynasty ran strong.
“Again, Master Ezrin?” said Lord Hercival. “This is the third time in as many weeks. What is it this time?”
“Someone or something was within the castle last night, My Lord.”
“Are you so sure? What was it last time, Nicoras?”
“One of the lads had a wench in the hayloft, my Lord,” said Nicoras, his battered face impassive. With the Duke away at the court of the High King, having taken his eldest son Lord Reginal, the guard commander and a select company of bodyguards, Nicoras was in command of Castle Sarazan's forces, under Lord Hercival.
“Can you be sure that it is nothing so ordinary, Master?” asked Lord Hercival sharply, his dark eyes fixed accusingly on Ezrin.
“It was a response quite different to the last one, my Lord.”
Ezrin almost succeeded in keeping the annoyance out of his voice. He wished that he was speaking to Lord Hercival’s father or even his elder brother Lord Reginal. His Grace, the Duke, would not have spoken to him like that; he knew the value of Ezrin's arts.
“The sentries saw and heard nothing, my Lord,” said Nicoras.
“I did say someone or something, my Lord,” said Ezrin. “If the sentries saw no-one then I stand by my statement. Something was within the castle last night. I would speculate that someone using the arts of sorcery was exploring our position.”
“Which part of the castle?” The hook nose pointed at Ezrin.
“I cannot tell that, my Lord. The wards merely warn of breach of the perimeter.”
Lord Hercival pursed his lips and frowned in thought. “I’m at a loss to know how to respond to such a vague warning. What think you, Nicoras?”
Nicoras folded his powerful arms across his barrel chest. “Difficult to assess a threat that no-one else sees, my Lord. I can double the guard detail for the next few nights if you wish it.”
“I don't believe that will be necessary, Nicoras. Who would be so bold as to assault us here?
“There's a squad of Nandorans holed up in a cheap tavern down in the city,” said Nicoras. “Their leader is Baldwin’s nephew, Tancred.”
“What on earth do they think to do?” Lord Hercival laughed. “Rescue that flea-bitten wretch we've got in the south tower? Nicoras, you surely jest with me.”
“They could be a threat, my Lord.”
“A bunch of sorry sheepherders. Very well, Nicoras, go down and collect them if you think they’re a threat. We'll send Earl Baldwin a reminder of the stakes in this game. And as for you Master Ezrin, may I suggest you go back to your tower and work at refining your guard spells rather than casting horoscopes for the maidservants, popular as they are.”
Ezrin pulled his long silver cloak about him and stalked out with as much dignity as he could muster.
***
It was a very sorry bunch of Nandorans that sat in a cell in the watch house. Despite a fine selection of battered heads and bruised limbs they bore their discomfort in silence, except Tancred. He complained if someone coughed, complained if a flea bit and complained loudly if any feet sounded in the corridor beyond the door. If he had nothing to complain about, he told his long-suffering comrades and the world in general, that he had done nothing to deserve this state. This was untrue. He hadn't intended to start a fight, but it had directly resulted from his actions. A serving girl, admittedly clumsy and more than a little plump, had spilled a mug of ale over Tancred in a crowded taproom. Tancred had cursed her, then slapped her, and the whole tavern rose against them. The entire room exploded into a maelstrom of brawling men, the Nandorans at the centre. Then the Watch arrived and, in all probability, the Watchmen Tancred was now abusing had saved their lives.
***
“I don't want to know about what you did with that girl last night.” Aron was losing patience with Davo. “Just tell me that you've found a boat that'll get us out of here.”
The little man had finally arrived back at the tavern around midday, reeking of cheap scent.
“You’re just jealous, that’s what.” Davo grinned. “But I got us a boat. Her ma's got a boyfriend that's a boatman. He'll take us downriver. Won't be cheap, mind.”
“How much?” Aron said resignedly.
“Twenty silver for each man.”
Aron drew breath through clenched teeth like a man pulling a splinter from a finger. Sixty silvers. Most farmers in Darien didn’t earn that much in a year. “Is he reliable?”
Stupid question, Aron thought as soon as he said it. First, he wouldn't trust Davo's judgement and second, anyone asking that much to perform a minor illegal act was certainly criminal.
“Doubt it, but we got no choice 'ave we? You know anyone else?”
“No. You're right, we need passage out and we'll need it soon. Maybe within a day. How soon can he leave?”
“Soon as he sees the silver.”
“Good, then we go tonight. We'll make a try for Maldwyn and go direct to the boat. When can you take me to this sailor?”
Davo went quiet for a long moment before answering. “Not till after dark. I know where to find him then.”
“Fine, we’ll wait here. But get your gear together and bring it down here. Just your gear, mind.” Davo gave him a dark look which he ignored. “There's no knowing where Tancred and the others are, or when they’ll show up. I just hope they’ve kept their mouths shut if they have been taken up by the Watch. Although, if they hadn’t, we’d have had a platoon of guardsmen on the doorstep with the dawn. So you keep quiet if they do show up. I don't want to have to explain to Tancred why we're getting our kit ready for the road.”
***
“It seems you have an excess of energy and aggression.” The magistrate fixed his cold gaze on Tancred. “Fortunately here in Sarazan we know of a cure for that.” The frosty stare took in the other four men of the Nandor expedition. “Five days labour in the quarry will cool your tempers, I think. Take them away please, watchman.”
The party were hustled out of the courtroom by half a dozen black-clad men and led to a waiting room. Chained one to another and the wall they sat in silence watched by a selection of the criminal class of Sarazan and four Watchmen. Tancred looked around the room, his fists clenched very tight. It was not the physical prospect of the quarry work that annoyed him; it was dishonour that he, a nobleman of an ancient house, should be lowered to this, and in the company of common soldiers. Yet to have declared his station would have landed him in far deeper trouble, joining Maldwyn as a hostage. The other Nandorans avoided catching his eye; they knew that the witnesses of his discomfort would suffer for it later.
As the day progressed the room filled up with the lowlife of Sarazan until, when it seemed no more could be contained within the walls, the watchmen unbolted the chains from the wall and led the convicts out in chained-up groups of four or five.
The prisoners were herded onto large open wagons, the chains were shackled to a ring on the wagon body and then the horses were whipped up. As the wagon clattered through the streets the people they passed jeered and threw whatever came to hand. Urchins ran alongside and lobbed handfuls of filth, some with remarkable accuracy. Tancred crouching in the bottom of the wagon received a double handful of stinking ordure across the back of his neck. None of the Nandorans dared to laugh.
***
Aron stretched out on the bench in the common room beside the cold remains of last night's fire; his head resting on his pack, and closed his eyes. The lack of sleep was catching up with him, and he foresaw still less in prospect for the next few nights. Davo settled similarly on another bench beside
the door to the tavern's interior: it appeared that he too had had little sleep. Breathing slowly and evenly, Aron sought the dark pool of sleep; sinking into its warm depths he let his mind wander where it would.
Maybe some residue of the wise woman's potion remained within him, or maybe it was his spirit that now knew the way of itself, but Aron dreamed of stepping once more into the mist. As before, insubstantial shadows thickened into solid objects, and he emerged from the cloud into a meadow. Looking around, he recognised the herb garden at Castle Nandor and then seeing the bower beside the willow tree, smiled to himself. Who waited within dreaming of him? He walked up the path, his boots silent on the soft turf, and stepped into the bower. Celaine sat alone on the double seat, her head bowed. She looked up at Aron, the red in her lovely eyes showing that she had been weeping. A smile spread across her face like the sun breaking through rain clouds and she reached out to take him in her arms. She buried her head in his chest and held him very tightly. Aron ran his fingers through her dark hair and whispered soft words of comfort, waiting for her to speak. After a long while Celaine’s grip loosened and she turned her face up to look at him, eyes moist with unshed tears. Aron pressed his lips to hers and they held each other close for further long minutes. Finally she released him.
“I've missed you night and day since you left, but today I need you more than ever.” She looked into his eyes and tears threatened to flow again.
''Tell me,” Aron stroked her cheek with his fingers.
“Just another rejection. I should be used to it by now, but….”
Her shoulders heaved and the threatened tears flowed. Aron held her close and wondered what he could say. Then the dream disintegrated as the door of the common room crashed open. Armed men, the crest of Sarazan on their breasts, burst into the room by the street door.
Aron was suddenly back in the inn. His reaction was immediate; the first man through the door fell with a thrown knife in his throat. The second stumbled over his fallen comrade and the third died with Aron's second throwing knife in his left eye. Aron snatched up his sword and attacked while he still held the initiative. The man who had stumbled died on his knees, unable to avoid Aron's thrust. The fourth man tangled with the fellow behind him as he tried to avoid the assault. He died quickly too, and the fifth man backed out into the street. Aron slammed the door, dropped the locking bar and then wedged a bench against it to keep the assailants at bay.
“The other door. Get it closed. Put your bench against it. Now!” Aron yelled at Davo who sat wide-eyed. The little man did as he was told, and then stood in the middle of the room shaking his head in confusion. “What the hell is going on?” Looking at the dead guardsmen he said unnecessarily, “We're in the shit.”
There was a loud noise from the street door as if something heavy had struck it.
“That won’t hold them for long.” Aron looked around at the plain room. There was one window high up in the wall, too small for even a child to wriggle through. He stooped to retrieve his knives, wiping them on a dead guardsman’s tunic.
Davo looked at Aron with an odd measuring gaze as if trying to decide something, then he looked at the wall, finally he spoke.
“The chimney. We can climb the chimney.”
Aron looked at him open-mouthed.
“It's wide all the way up. I know 'cos I was a chimney boy. I've climbed thissun before, there's lots of room.”
“That was a long time ago, you've grown since,” said Aron. Another crash at the door reverberated around the room, this one accompanied by an ominous cracking of timbers.
“Yer got a better idea?”
“No, let's climb. You first.”
Davo picked up his pack and stepped into the wide fireplace. He fastened the pack to an ankle and then began to climb. Aron snatched up his pack and, in similar fashion to Davo, tied it to his ankle. There was another thump, this time from the other door leading to the interior of the inn. Aron stepped into the fireplace, looked up and received a small avalanche of soot in his face. He spat the filth out of his mouth and decided to wait until Davo was clear before starting the climb. He didn't want to be half way up with Davo blocking the way above, an enemy below and no way to turn. There was another charge on the street door, but the tortured wood withstood the blow. Soot continued to fall in the fireplace; the door was assaulted again but held. The soot fall ceased. Aron looked up the chimney and saw nothing but a ragged patch of sky. He listened intently for a moment… nothing, then Davo's urgent whisper. “C'mon, get moving.”
Aron began to climb, feeling for handholds in the dark. In the room below he heard a splintering crash. Voices echoed up the flue. The street door had yielded to the enemy. His shoulders and hips scraped on rough, warm brickwork, but handholds presented themselves; this was a way that had been climbed regularly, though by climbers smaller than he. His head emerged into clean air. Davo caught hold of his shoulders to pull him clear.
“C'mon, we've gotta get away from here.”
Aron needed no such urging, pulling his pack clear of the chimney they set off across the rooftops of Sarazan.
Up on the roof, Davo was transformed; certain in his movements he directed Aron away from the besieged inn. Taking command effortlessly, he stepped with assurance from roof to roof as they left the Duke's troops behind. Two hundred paces they travelled, leaping from house to house, until Davo thought it safe to descend to the street. Then he led Aron through the alleys of the poor quarter to a dilapidated wooden shanty that seemed held together with pitch. Davo rapped on the door with enough force that Aron expected it to fall into the hovel. It didn't, instead it swung open revealing the face of the serving girl from the tavern.
“Oh sweetheart, come in.” Then spotting Aron, she added. “Maybe I'd better find Annie or Babs for your friend. I thought you said he weren't interested.”
Aron stepped into the gloom of the interior. “I'm just looking for somewhere to keep out of the way for a few hours. I don't think you need trouble your friends on my behalf, but thanks for the offer.”
Aron thought about asking if there was somewhere he could wash off the filth he had acquired in his ascent of the tavern chimney, but a brief look at his hostess and surroundings convinced him that no such facility existed. Davo had already made himself comfortable with the girl on a straw-filled sack. Aron shrugged, put his pack down on the beaten earth floor and sat on it.
“Before you get too comfortable, Davo, remember that we have a few things to acquire before dark,” he said, but got only giggles in reply.
***
“How many?”
The young lieutenant stood before Nicoras in the guardroom of Castle Sarazan, his career prospects in ashes. “Four dead, Captain.”
“And how many Nandoran sheepkissers were responsible for this slaughter?” Nicoras's gaze turned to the guardsman standing stiffly at the lieutenant's side.
“Two, sir. Two that I saw anyways. Fought like demons, Captain.”
“No doubt they did. Then vanished away into thin air.” Neither man dared to look Nicoras in the eyes as he paced before them. “Well, did they?” he bellowed.
“We searched the whole tavern, Captain. I swear it. There was no trace.” The lieutenant answered.
“We did sir. Top to bottom,” the guardsman added.
“Who asked you?” Nicoras roared. “Keep quiet until I ask you. So where did they go?” Nicoras put his face close up to the young officer. “Did they turn into birds and just fly away?'
“I don't know, sir. We found no trace. The men are saying its magic, Captain.”
“Are they indeed? I might expect that from the common soldiery, but I expect more intelligent reasoning from the officers of this guard. There is no evidence of a wizard in Sarazan. Master Ezrin has not told me of any unexplained use of magic. Can you think of no other explanation?” The young officer said nothing. “Then let me do the thinking for you. Was there a chimney in the common room o
f this tavern? Did you examine it? Was there a great deal of soot in the hearth?” Nicoras noted the young man stiffen with surprise and realisation. “Is it possible they escaped up the chimney and across the roof? Did you consider that?”
During this tirade Nicoras had resumed pacing the room; now he put his face very close to the lieutenant again. “No. You did not. That is how your assassins escaped. Not magic, they climbed up the chimney. Now get some men on the roof, follow the tracks they left and find them, you moron!”
CHAPTER 14
Midnight found Aron and Davo in the Duke's deerpark on the opposite shore from Castle Sarazan. Crouching in the bushes by the water's edge Aron readied his gear.
“If I'm not back by the first lightening of the sky, I'm not coming back. You're on your own then. But do me the courtesy of waiting till then before you go back to sweetie. And look after my boots; they're the only pair I've got.”
Aron pulled them off and passed them to Davo. He wound the rope around his body and tied one end to his left wrist. The grappling hook they'd bought earlier in the day was attached to the other end and secured at his side.
“How do I look, have I missed any bits?” Aron asked.
Wearing a dark shirt and breeches and with the soot from the chimney smeared across his face, Aron should have been almost invisible to Davo as a cloud front covered the sky.
“Real good, can’t ‘ardly see yer,” said Davo. “Hope e's fit enough to get out.”
“He's a nobleman being held for ransom, that's very different to languishing in a dungeon. The Duke will respect the conventions; Maldwyn'll have enough to eat and he'll get exercise daily. He's probably in better shape than we are.” Aron looked up at the advancing cloud. “Now is as good a time as we'll get,” he said and stood up.“Good luck then,” Davo said. “Bring him out. Master Maldwyn’s a good lad, it’s a shame what’s ‘appened to ‘im.”
Aron stepped into the water and stifled a curse as the cold bit into his legs. Gritting his teeth he pushed forwards until his shoulders were underwater then struck out with a purposeful breaststroke. He was a strong swimmer; long summer evenings beside the Darien river had seen to that. The back wall of the castle looked to be less than a long bowshot distant, but he had reckoned without the cold. This was not Darien at midsummer and the chill drank his strength like a thirsty horse. “This settles the debt,” he thought as he pushed through the dark water. “After this no-one can say I didn’t try.” He concentrated on breathing regularly; trying to focus all his awareness on the rhythm of the stroke and ignore the distant bulk of the fortress.