Bridgemear nodded to the sprite when he left the safety of the trees and made his way to the main gatehouse. He toyed with the idea of covering his face and using his cloak to hide his identity as well as his sword, but to most he was already a stranger and so he hid the blade instead. A rush of air brushed against his leg and Bridgemear looked down to see the wood sprite at his feet.
‘What are you doing here?’ demanded the mage, annoyed at seeing the sprite. ‘Were you not told to stay in the forest?’
Bracken set his mouth in a firm scowl, staring fiercely upon the outer walls which were littered with silver helmets.
‘You shouldn’t go in there,’ he muttered, folding his arms against his chest. ‘You know, it’s far too dangerous.’
Bracken turned and faced the wizard without fear of reprisal. Their eyes locked and for a brief moment Bridgemear was able to observe the courage harboured deep behind them.
‘You’re being followed too, were you aware?’ Bracken added, when the wizard still refused to answer.
Bridgemear sighed.
‘Yes, I am aware, but it’s nothing for you to worry about.’
‘Aren’t you the least bit scared?’ asked Bracken, his eyes wide in confusion.
‘No, of course not, because those who are following me are hopefully my friends, but thank you for your concern.’
‘Are you sure?’ Bracken asked, still unconvinced, ‘because they’ve been following you for quite some time.’
‘Yes, I’m sure, but again, thanks for bringing it to my attention.’ Bridgemear nodded, patting the sprite’s head like a loyal hound, somehow touched by the creature’s sincerity towards him.
‘Go home, little one,’ he advised, nudging his horse forward. ‘There’s nothing here for you but trouble.’
‘Why do you feel you have to do everything alone?’ Bracken suddenly snapped, becoming cross. ‘Why won’t you let me help you?’
Bridgemear pulled sharply on the reins, causing his horse to throw its head. He turned in his saddle to face the sprite, his hard expression softening.
‘It is not that I wish to do it all alone,’ he explained, with a sigh, ‘it’s just that I am used to being alone and that’s something completely different.’
‘Then let me help you,’ Bracken pleaded, making his way once again to Bridgemear’s side.
‘Why are you so insistent?’ asked Bridgemear, almost wavering from his decision, ‘You know you owe me nothing.’
Bracken’s eyes became hooded.
‘I simply believe in your kind and all that you stand for,’ he said, relaxing his shoulders. ‘Isn’t that enough?’ Bridgemear shook his head.
‘This isn’t the forest,’ he said, pointing towards the trees. ‘This is not a game I can stop when the going gets tough. Go, my friend, keep yourself safe and be glad you have the chance to live another day.’
Once again Bridgemear kicked his horse on, but this time it broke into a trot, leaving the sprite rooted to the spot. Bracken called out to the magician when the distance between them grew vast.
‘I will wait for your return and if you need to hide within the forest I will be there to shelter you,’ he shouted. ‘Simply call my name and I will come to your aid.’
There was no reply from the wizard and Bracken sniffed. Still, he meant what he said. He would wait in the seclusion of the trees for Bridgemear to leave the castle just in case he needed his help. Moments later he melted into the trees and became invisible once again to the naked eye. He would watch for those who followed the mage, those Bridgemear claimed were his friends, and should the need arise and they wanted his help, he would be ready and waiting to lend a hand.
*
Not long after Bracken returned to the forest, Bridgemear found he had entered the gates to the castle without much fuss. The Nonhawk guards watched all who entered, their eyes alert and heavy with distrust, and they glared at the stranger with suspicious eyes, but saw nothing to alert them to any danger, believing he was not a wanted man.
Once inside the castle walls Bridgemear noted the wave of activity which seemed to follow him through the gates. He guided his horse between the narrow streets and the intolerable swarm of village people, whilst trying to find somewhere half decent to stay for the night. Almost everyone he passed acknowledged him in some way, born of respect; he received many a courteous nod from a noble born or a low bow from the servants who adorned the busy streets, but nothing but blank expressions from the Nonhawk soldiers themselves.
He eventually dismounted and entered a dark lobby, and without taking off his cloak he made his way to a tatty desk. He studied the layout of the building, noting its disrepair, and inwardly felt displeased.
A nervous creature pulled himself from behind a discoloured red curtain and bowed in greeting. It was obvious he had once been tall, but his twisted spine had seen to that and Bridgemear thought his eyes were far too close together, giving him the uncomplimentary resemblance of a street rat.
‘Keeper, a room,’ Bridgemear demanded, with a sharp edge to his voice.
‘Certainly, sire, will that be just for the night?’
‘No, a few days.’
‘Oh, not just passing through then?’
‘Yes, exactly; do you mind, the key?’
‘Sorry, where are my manners? Please follow me and I will take you straight to your room.’
The innkeeper’s trembling hand grabbed a brass key from off an old, wooden peg, which he attempted to shine with the cuff of his shirt sleeve. The owner appeared to walk with a strange stoop and his neck looked as displaced as his spine.
Bridgemear wondered how this creature had managed to survive living within the Nonhawk community. The Nonhawks were not known for their caring nature or willingness to help anyone less fortunate than themselves and Bridgemear’s instincts led him to believe that things were perhaps not quite what they seemed.
‘I have friends who will be following shortly,’ Bridgemear stated, climbing the stairs two at a time. ‘Can you put them close by?’
‘Will there be many?’
‘No, no more than two.’
‘Consider it done, my lord, for I have plenty of rooms at my disposal,’ acknowledged his host.
Bridgemear tossed three gold coins up into the air and they landed in the keeper’s outstretched hand.
‘You’re very gracious,’ said the landlord, slipping them into his pocket and tapping it with his hand.
‘Your room is ready and right this way.’
He took the wizard to the second floor and opened the first door on the right. The door wouldn’t open easily and the keeper had to push hard with his shoulder to gain entry.
‘It’s a little stiff,’ he said, his face turning scarlet, ‘I will bring something to fix it, once you are settled.’
‘No need to bother me, the room is fine,’ Bridgemear said, stepping inside. He found it to be clean and tidy and smelling distinctively of lavender.
‘My woman’s idea,’ said his host, sniffing the fragrance like a dog sniffs a bone. ‘It’s supposed to help you stay calm and have a peaceful night’s sleep.’
Bridgemear nodded, looking unimpressed, and walked over to the window. He slid the thin, lace curtain to one side and peered out into the street, watching the world below bustle by at a swift pace. Nonhawk soldiers swarmed the alleyways and streets, and the everyday folk were often seen pushed aside in their haste. Bridgemear’s tension increased, feeling unnerved by the huge mass of Nonhawk soldiers. He thought of Forusian; perhaps he was now ready to invade his beloved Amella’s lands? He shifted his gaze and rested it upon the keeper who was still standing by the doorway, looking a little hesitant. Bridgemear thought his stoop appeared to have worsened with climbing the stairs. The creature caught his eye, lifting his finger when he could see he had his full attention.
‘By the way, my name is Snitterby for anyone who has the desire to know it,’ he told the mage, with a hint of mockery in his voice. ‘May I ask if y
ou require anything else before I leave you?’ he added, tilting his head to one side as though straining to listen for a reply.
‘No, you may go,’ Bridgemear answered, with a flurry of his hand, ‘I have everything I need for the moment.’
‘Very well, sire, as you wish and when your friends arrive I will let you know,’ he said, giving a slight bow.
‘Yes, that would be appreciated,’ Bridgemear assented; grateful the landlord was finally leaving. On closing the door the magician made his way across the room and turned the key in the lock, but on hearing it click he found it didn’t ease the tension that crept up into his shoulders. Something wasn’t right, it was as though he had been expected and if that was the case then he doubted if he had much time before he was placed under arrest or worse, if Forusian had his way.
Bridgemear was right, as soon as he was able to leave, Snitterby made his way as quickly as his curved spine would allow, heading with haste straight to the king. His feet sounded noisy when they hit the cobbled stones and he kept glancing over his shoulder, convinced he was surely being followed by the ill-tempered wizard. The streets were still crawling with bustling citizens, concentrating on the activities of market day. The air was heavy with desperate cries from the many traders, each trying to tempt the ignorant passers-by with their mountain of irresistible wares.
The keeper ignored them all, trying not to catch anyone’s eye for fear of being recognised and he slid like an unknown shadow through the busy main streets, knowing how cruel the Nonhawk could be to him with him being crippled, if the mood so took them.
Only a short time later his nervous body stood waiting for an audience with King Forusian. Sweat poured like rain from his clammy forehead and he wiped the constant stream away with a long, trembling hand. His nervousness grew whilst he waited and when the huge doors opened to allow him entry, he couldn’t help shiver. A solitary guard brought him into the Great Hall to where Forusian was sitting on his throne, surrounded by his council.
‘What news do you bring?’ asked Forusian, staring at the ugly face standing before him. ‘What stranger have you in your house?’
The keeper kept his eyes focused on the floor and bowed.
‘Your excellence, I bring news of the wizard Bridgemear; he has entered the castle walls.’ Forusian’s head almost snapped back when his words perforated his brain and his eyes sharpened like broken glass. He jumped from his throne, his withered legs almost causing him to stumble, and he made his way to his spy’s side.
‘Are you sure it’s him?’ he asked, peering in his face, looking slightly suspicious.
‘Yes, sire, it is he.’
‘When did he arrive?’
‘Little more than an hour ago, sire.’
‘Is he alone?’
‘For the moment, but he speaks of two others who will be joining him.’
‘Tell me, what else?’
‘There is nothing more, my lord, your guard simply ordered me to come to you the moment either Amella or Bridgemear were seen, but she is not with him and the mage appears on edge.’
Forusian’s face broke into a sly grin.
‘And so he should be,’ he said, unable to stop himself from sneering.
He paced the hall with his withered legs trembling. His council watched him with curious eyes, their hands filled with unsigned papers and their mouths agape with indignation from the unwelcome intrusion.
‘Leave us!’ Forusian commanded the council, when he caught their penetrating stares. ‘I will deal with those trivial matters later.’
Tight-lipped, the council obeyed, but a look of distaste was flashed in Snitterby’s direction.
‘Damn Bridgemear,’ Forusian spat, with malice. ‘He thinks I have the girl and that is why he’s here.’
His eyes became hard like pieces of flint, his once flamboyant characteristics no longer on display, replaced with a chilling mask of resentment instead.
‘I will have to act quickly and try to kill him before the others arrive,’ he stated, showing clear signs of agitation. He stopped pacing the floor and stared into the unremarkable face of Snitterby.
‘Go back and watch his every move. I want an hourly update,’ the king insisted.
‘As you wish, my lord,’ said the keeper, bowing and making his leave.
He felt the doors close behind him and Snitterby breathed a sigh of relief. He had no real loyalty to the king and his allegiance had been cast through fear and my, how he feared Forusian. Once he became calmer and his heart quietened enough to ease the loud thumping noise within his ears, he wasted no time in making his way back home.
Back in the seclusion of the Great Hall, Snitterby was soon a distant memory in Forusian’s mind. He thought only of his future and how close he was to reaching his goal. He’d killed King Gamada to make way for himself on the throne and he just had one more elf with royal blood to destroy; then, as soon as he married Crystal, the elf realm and all its empire would be legitimately his for the taking.
He retraced his steps back to his throne. Now Bridgemear had arrived he felt the first sharp prick of apprehension. He knew the sorcerer would not rest until he’d killed the Nonhawk king and so time was of the essence; he must act quickly. He knew what he had to do; he must kill Bridgemear before this day came to a bloodthirsty end.
Chapter 22
Even though her eyes were closed, bright light was able to penetrate through her lids. Crystal raised her hands to protect her face and opening her eyes, recoiled when she realised she still bore hooves. The spell was, however, beginning to wear off and with it came the pain of the transformation back into her human form. Crystal could see the distinct colour of red behind her eyes and an unwelcome feeling of nausea sloshed about inside her empty stomach. Her pulse throbbed in her temple and she cursed, wondering how much longer she was going to suffer the consequences of her naivety.
With some reluctance she opened her eyes, unprepared for the bright light that hit her full force, and she squinted, feeling white pain explode inside her brain and making her cry out. She lay helpless on a cold stone floor for what seemed like an age, the floor covered only with thin matting to stop the damp from seeping through to her bones.
It took a while, but once the pain subsided she sat upright and found herself to be tethered to a wooden pole. She tugged at the rope fastened around her neck, but she couldn’t get it to untie with still having hooves. Her brain was fuzzy, but thankfully her body was almost back to normal now. She stared down at her naked flesh and felt a huge wave of embarrassment crash over her. Where the hell was Amella with her clothes?
The room was in semi-darkness with only one small window allowing in light. The light fell onto Crystal’s trembling body and she was grateful for the slight warmth it gave her cold skin.
Whilst her eyes adjusted to the gloom she began to notice red stains upon the walls and a small channel built into the ground to allow drainage to run the full breadth of the butchery. The air was filled with a sickly, sweet aroma which filled her nostrils and she was aware of the distinct smell of fresh blood. She suffered a moment of panic when she realised she’d been placed in an area used for the slaughter of animals and a noise behind her caused her to freeze.
A huge shadow teased the cold stone and Crystal’s throat tightened in fear. In desperation, she swept her eyes along the ground in search of something she could use as a weapon, but there was nothing she could hold on to; she was helpless. She frantically tried to pull at the cord around her neck, but she couldn’t get a grip and the rope dug deeper into her flesh, causing her to wince in pain. She closed her eyes and listened to the footsteps that were drawing near; they were soft, almost undetectable, but Crystal didn’t miss a step. She knew she must act quickly and use her powers to defend herself. But it was too late; the sound was closing in on her and Crystal shrank back in fright.
A distinct outline was growing along the wall and Crystal turned, staring down at the hooves which were barring her escape and she
couldn’t help cowering, awaiting the fatal blows to her head.
A cold hand touched her shoulder and Crystal pulled away, screaming.
‘Shut up, you silly girl,’ snapped a sharp voice in her ear, and a hand came from nowhere and covered her mouth.
Recognition ignited in Crystal’s eyes and she let out a deep sob of relief.
‘Oh, thank god, it’s you!’ Crystal cried, when Amella dropped her hand away. ‘I thought you were the cook and you’d come to bash my brains in!’ She shuddered at the mere thought, thankful she had been rescued in time, but her eyes still shone with anxiety. Amella untied the rope from around her neck.
‘We must get out of here before we are caught,’ she said, throwing the rope to the floor. She then placed a small bundle next to her feet and her nimble fingers tore at the threads tied around it, revealing Crystal’s clothes.
‘Quickly, get dressed,’ she ordered. ‘The cook will be here shortly and I don’t want us to be anywhere near here when she arrives.’
Crystal did as she was told and Amella took in her surroundings, and suffered a nauseating shiver. Many a hand had placed their mark against the stone and the walls were gnarled with violence.
‘We must head for the dungeons if we want to find your friend,’ Amella whispered, glancing down and realising Crystal was struggling to get her hooves through her sleeves.
‘Your hands should be back to normal very soon,’ she said, helping her to dress and then examining Crystal’s hooves with her own hands.
‘I don’t know why, but that always seems to happen when I create a creature spell,’ she said, appearing baffled.
‘Do you have any idea how frightened I was when I couldn’t undo the rope?’ Crystal hissed, pulling her hands from Amella’s tight grasp.
Sinners of Magic Page 24