Misthaven: The Complete Trilogy

by J Battle

‘Sam! Gorge! Get here now! Or, so help me…’

  Gorge dashed into the kitchen, with Sam right behind.

  ‘We were outside, and we didn’t hear you, miss,’ said Gorge, and then he fell forward as Sam ran into his back.

  ‘Who ate all the food?’ said Miss Higard, ignoring the boy on his knees.

  The three boys looked at each other, and then Gorge nodded to Tom.

  ‘We ate it, Miss. We could see you were too busy, and you’d forgotten to feed us, and we were hungry. So we fed ourselves like, to save you the trouble.’

  ‘I fed you this morning.’

  ‘But that was breakfast. It’s nearly night now, so we had our lunch, and all we need now is our supper.’

  ‘Supper! Supper! You’ve eaten your supper! So there won’t be no supper for you!’

  All three boys suddenly looked very glum, then Sam smiled.

  ‘Pardon Miss, but, if we’ve had our supper for our lunch like, can we have our lunch for our supper? That would be fine enough for me.’

  ‘Get to bed and don’t think to bother me again. Not tonight, and not tomorrow.’

  ‘But…what will we eat tomorrow?’ Sam was very close to tears at the prospect.

  ‘It’ll learn you a lesson, it will. Not to take what ain’t yours, it’ll teach you.’

  ‘Will it teach us, miss? Or will it learn us?’ asked Tom, already on his way.

  ‘If I get hold of you boy, you’ll be sorry you learned to talk!’

  She made to follow them, but they were already gone.

  ‘This is too much trouble, it is. For the poor pittance Jones gives me.’ She sighed as she reached up and opened the high cupboard and took out the pie that was just for her.

  Chapter 19 Jumba

  Jumba stopped when he’d passed the great boulder that almost blocked the road.

  ‘That’s…’ He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say, but he knew that he wasn’t happy.

  ‘It will take us down to the valley below, and that’s where we need to be.’ Lancer laughed as he spoke.

  ‘Well, I reckon we might get there a bit too soon for my liking, if we fall of that there edge.’

  Beyond the boulder, the road narrowed and clung to the steep mountainside like a long-lost lover. To its left, the ground fell away, and there was nothing to stop a careless walker from doing the same.

  Far below they could see the wide slow waters of River Rizer, making its easy way down to the coast in the far distance. Nestled up to the river, on both of its banks, was the town of Royal Leigh, home to the king and his court.

  ‘Will this road take us all the way there?’ asked Jumba, with his back to the drop and one hand on the solid rock before him.

  ‘Ay it will…’ said Lancer, his eyes on the town below. ’It will soon enough, I reckon, unless you be a bird and want to float right down there.’

  ‘No, I’m hanging onto this here mountain all the way down, I am.’

  Lancer walked to the very edge of the road, standing with the toes of his boot sticking out into the air and his weight on his heels.

  ‘It is a long way down,’ he said, softly; almost to himself. Then he shook his head and blew out his cheeks and allowed himself to fall backwards, almost staggering.

  ‘Shall…shall we hold hands or something?’ muttered Jumba, reaching out one hand.

  ‘If you are missing your young lady, then I don’t mind holding hands, but there’ll be no kissing.’

  Jumba scowled and pulled his hand back. Slowly, he began to shuffle along the road, facing the rock and trying his very best to ignore the drop behind him.

  ‘You’ll be a long time getting down to the valley if you’re hugging the mountain,’ commented Lancer, as he strolled along behind him.

  ‘Well, I don’t know any other way down. That drop, it be a bit too…enticing, I think, for me. If you know what I mean.’

  ‘Oh I do, I do,‘ said Lancer, lightly, as he walked with his hands clasped behind his back.

  The way down was silent from that point, as Jumba forced himself to continue and Lancer was lost in thought.

  ‘You never told me your secret,’ said Lancer at last, when the valley seemed just a few dozen yards below them.

  ‘What?’ Jumba was walking with a little more confidence now, but he still had one hand on the rocky wall that towered above him.

  ‘The wager. You lost, and so you were to tell me of your secret.’

  ‘I never said I had a secret.’

  ‘Every man has a secret. And every woman too, I would expect.’

  ‘Well I don’t know about that. Seems a lot of secrets to go around, don’t you think?’

  ‘It’s a reasonable point, I admit. But a secret shared is a secret doubled, as they say, so there would soon be enough for everyone, as long as you don’t keep it to yourself.’

  ‘Your words are getting all slippery again, and I need to concentrate on this road, if you don’t mind so much.’

  ‘Well secrets on lips are mere gossip to the ear, so keep your little sordidness to yourself, if you like.’

  ‘It ain’t sordid, it’s…’

  ‘Ah now, so you do have a secret.’ Lancer smiled and linked his arm through Jumba’s.

  ‘You can tell me, for I won’t tell a living a soul, and if I did, they’d just say, ‘Jumba? Jumba who?’’

  ‘I…’

  ‘Tell me her name, at least. Allow me that.’

  ‘Well, she’s called Ellen, and she works in a tavern back in Hesselton, and she…’

  Lancer held up one hand. ‘Hold it now man. I don’t want all those sordid details. I’m a man of simple tastes and you’ll only disturb my dreams, with your tales of rutting…’

  ‘I never said that… or anything like that. We ain’t… I ain’t… She ain’t.... She’s a respectable girl, and we ain’t done nothing…disrespectable.’

  ‘I see, and here you are, about another man’s business when you have a warm willing woman waiting for you at home.’

  ‘She won’t mind; not when I tell her, she won’t.’

  They stepped from the dusty road onto a soft carpet of grass, dotted here and there with a multitude of brightly coloured flowers that Jumba couldn’t begin to name.

  ‘Ah now,‘ sighed Lancer as he settled down on his haunches on the grass. ’This is something to see, after the road, don’t you think?’

  Jumba looked around and he nodded. ‘It’s nice enough, but…’

  ‘But what?’ asked Lancer, in a less than interested manner.

  ‘Oh nothing, I suppose.’ Jumba had been about to compare this valley with Misthaven, the way it used to be, but it wasn’t to be spoken of amongst strangers.

  Lancer trailed his fingers through the grass, with his eyes closed and half a smile resting on his face.

  ‘Shouldn’t we be getting on now?’ said Jumba.

  Lancer sighed and lowered himself onto his back.

  ‘I think I’ll take me a nap here; it’s been so long since I’ve been home.’ He closed his eyes.

  ‘But, we should get over to the king before it gets dark, don’t you think?’

  ‘Ah, you’re right. You don’t want to be keeping him waiting. Off you trot. I’ll be here if you pass this way again.’

  ‘But…are you not coming with me? I thought you wanted to see the king too.’

  ‘Goodness me, but you’re near as right as you are wrong.’

  ‘Don’t start with your slipperiness again. Talk plain and clear.’

  Lancer opened his eyes and lifted his head a little.

  ‘You’d rather have stiff, awkward, slow words?’

  ‘Clear will do.’

  ‘No matter how clear the words are, with ears full of tatoes you won’t hear a thing.’

  Jumba resisted the temptation to stick his finger in his ear.

  ‘I’m staying right here. I’ll not be walking to the king’s palace. Is that sufficiently clear?’

  ‘Right enough. If that be the way you want
to go, then I’ll say no more, and I’ll be on my way, to see the king, like.’

  Lancer closed his eyes in dismissal.

  Jumba grunted and turned away.

  Then he stopped and spun back.

  ‘Before I go, can I ask you something? Like, I told you my secret, and all.’

  Lancer smiled. ’You can ask whatever to care to ask, friend, for you have entertained me on the road.’

  ‘The pie, who is it for? And all that food, like.’

  Lancer made no response.

  ‘You said I could ask, you did.’

  ‘Of course I did. But did I say I’d answer?’

  ‘Oh now, you’d drive a man to pick up a stick and bash your brains in with it, you would.’

  Jumba stood before him for a moment longer.

  ‘What about that pie?’ he asked, at last.

  ‘The pie? It’s not for you, and it’s not for me.’

  ‘I know that; you’ve said it often enough. But who is it for?’

  ‘Mayhap I’ll tell you when you return.’

  ‘Oh…blast and thunder!’ Jumba turned and marched off down the shallow green slope towards the town below.

  Lancer opened his eyes and watched the clouds race each other across the blue sky.

  ‘Ay, mayhap he’ll know already, when he returns,’ he whispered.

  Then, all of sudden, a thought occurred to him. He sat up quickly and searched for Jumba’s disappearing figure.

  He would have leapt up to his feet then, but what was it to him, really, what happened to a chance nearly-stranger? And the king might not be too angry at the sight of a servant greeting him on his master’s behalf. He might not be offended and reckless at the insult he could see in Lord Richard’s actions.

  Jumba might be fine.

  The king might be in a good mood, with a couple of flagons of strong ale inside him and a comely woman on his knee. He might say, ‘Fare thy master well, for our thoughts are with him at this terrible time.’

  He might say that, thought Lancer, but he never came for his pie, not in all these years, and he’d been sure he would. And that just demonstrated how little he knew his brother.

  Chapter 20 Prince Torn

  The prince stood upright and glistening, with his head held high and a disdainful half-smile on his face.

  Macky took a small step to his left. As he moved, he clenched his massive fists and flexed the impressive triceps and biceps that rippled across his upper arms.

  Then he roared, and he leapt forward, with his shaven head down and his arms outstretched.

  The prince danced backwards and to the side, with his own arms lowered.

  Macky came to a stop and lifted his head to search for his opponent, just in time to receive a thudding blow on the chin from the prince.

  The blow had little effect.

  ‘My wife, she hits harder than that,’ he said, loudly, playing to the crowd.

  He was near 30 summers of age and hadn’t been hurt in a fight since he was a mere boy; and he could take a punch on the chin.

  The prince was once again standing just beyond his reach, relaxed and hardly seeming to pay any attention to him.

  This wouldn’t do at all. The official had told him the prince would be distracted and unable to do himself justice. That did not appear to be the case.

  Calmly he walked forward, watching the prince. His opponent took a step backwards for every step of the challenger, moving to his left at the same time.

  ‘Stand thee still and fight like a man; not a little boy!’

  The prince merely smiled and continued, always a foot out of reach.

  Macky jumped forward, but the prince saw the move before it was barely started and slipped away.

  ‘I…’

  With inhuman speed, the prince had moved close and rammed a fist into his gut, and then moved away.

  ‘What…?’ He tried to draw a breath, but the prince was there again with an elbow to the face before he was gone.

  He shook his head. His nose was broken, he reckoned, but it wasn’t the first time and wouldn’t be the last.

  He squeezed out a string of blood and snot and tossed it away.

  ‘Right,’ he said, ’you’ve had your fun, and now you’ll pay.’

  He held his ground then, and kept his eyes on the prince, who was now standing still on the balls of his feet right in front of him.

  The pair stared at each other for a moment, and then the prince nodded and chuckled, and he walked right up to the massive man before him.

  With a roar, Macky grabbed him by his arms and lifted him from the ground. In the same move, he threw his head forward and smashed his forehead into the face of his opponent. There was an explosion of blood before he threw him to the ground.

  The prince lay still, blood and mucous leaking from his crushed nose.

  Macky leaned over him; sure that his work was done. It was his favourite move in a close fight, and the bones of the Prince’s nose should have been driven by the force of the blow directly into his brain.

  But the prince shook himself and lifted himself onto his elbows. He smiled a ghastly, bloody smile, and he rolled effortlessly to his feet.

  Stunned, Macky threw a punch by instinct. The prince ducked and caught his wrist, and he gave it a tug. He had no choice but to follow his wrist and found himself sailing through air above the prince.

  He landed awkwardly on his shoulder and gasped at the shock of the impact. Before he could recover, the prince was standing above him, and the blows began, raining down on his suddenly helpless body, hard and targeted with ruthless precision.

  At last, he could take no more, and raised one hand. ‘I yield…’ he gasped.

  But the prince continued, now kicking as well as punching.

  Macky rolled onto his belly to protect himself from the incessant assault.

  With sudden speed, the prince was on his back, and he gripped his head in both hands and twisted. The snap echoed across the courtyard, and the delicate ladies winced at the sound.

  He climbed from the dead body of the challenger, with his chest heaving and his eyes clouded. The blood still dripped from his crushed nose, and he moved now as if exhaustion would cause him to fail where his opponent had been unable to do so.

  Then there was a hiss and a thud, and he staggered backwards, an arrow sprouting from the centre of his chest.

  The crowd gasped as he fell to his knees, his knuckles brushing the hard ground.

  Meldon jumped to his feet, sending his chair across the flat roof in a clatter. He rushed to the chimney and found the assassin slipping his bow over his arm.

  ‘I’ll take my money now…’

  Meldon rammed his knife into the unsuspecting killer’s stomach. With a twist and a yell, he pulled the glistening blade free and pushed the dying man over the edge to the hard ground below.

  For a second he stood at the edge, allowing the watchers below to see the man who had slain the Prince’s killer, then he pulled away to rush down the steps, armed with explanations and concerns.

  He was such a consummate actor that, when he found the prince sitting up with the withdrawn arrow in his hand, he hardly swore at all.

  ‘My prince!’ Meldon lurched forward, his face a mask of concern. ‘I thought you were dead!’

  He fell to his knees beside his prince, his hands reaching out as if to touch the wound in the centre of his chest.

  The prince pushed his hands away, his eyes fixed on the head of the arrow.

  ‘What is this?’ he said, as he wiped away some of the blood with his thumb.

  ‘My prince, I’m so pleased that the Magic…’ He stopped, because the prince was not listening.

  With the blood cleared from the arrowhead, a thick, tarlike substance was visible, black and thick and glistening.

  ‘It is poison!’ gasped the prince. ‘If the blow didn’t kill me, he sought to do the job by less honourable means.’

  The concern on Meldon’s face would hav
e been clear to the most cynical of witnesses. ‘But, you’ll be fine, my Prince, with the Magic so strong within you?’

  ‘I…’ The prince suddenly spasmed, his body twisting, as he bent forward and to the right. The arrow snapped in his hand.

  He convulsed again and again, as the poison assaulted his body. He was suddenly rigid, his back arched, and his bowels evacuated.

  Meldon reached for him again and grabbed his shoulders, trying to hold him still, but he was not strong enough and was thrown backwards onto the hard ground.

  Before he could right himself, they were both surrounded by concerned members of the court, chattering and gesticulating, with scented handkerchiefs to their sensitive noses. Despite the fuss they were making, they were doing little to aid the prince.

  A soothnurse rushed into the square, pushing aside her betters until she could reach the prince.

  By now the convulsions had stopped and he lay still. She knelt beside him and placed his head in her lap. She leant forward and gently wiped away the foam from his mouth with the sleeve of her robe, frowning at the red mixed with the white.

  Meldon walked closer and placed a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Will he be alright?’ he said, softly.

  She looked up and there were tears in her eyes.

  ‘I know not, sir, but I fear he is sorely ill.’

  ‘Take him inside, out from the view of these people, and settle him in his bed. If he is to recover, he will need time and peace.’

  Together, they lifted the prince, with Meldon holding his shoulders and the soothnurse his legs.

  They were staggering by the time they heaved him up onto the comfortable bed in the ground-floor guest room.

  ‘Clean him up the best you can, and find him some clothes, for goodness sake. When that is done, you may leave him to me. I will sit with him and provide what support I can during his struggle.’

  ‘But, sir, he will need a surgeon, to let his blood. It is the only way to get the poison from him...’ The frown on Meldon’s face ended her words.

  ‘No surgeon’s knife will be enough. If he is to survive, and he will, believe me, then it will be the Magic that will save him.’

  ‘I know nothing of Magic, sir, but…’