Misthaven: The Complete Trilogy

by J Battle

  Chapter 23 Jimmywood

  Jimmywood walked with a bent back and hesitant stride; his gnarled staff his only support. His cloak flapped against his thin frame as the wind blew down from the mountain. He hardly glanced at the sea on his left as it rolled white and frothy against the shallow beach.

  He’d travelled only a few miles so far that day, but already his many stupid life choices were weighing heavily on his narrow shoulders.

  Just a few hours earlier he had shivered in the cold dark woods of the next valley along the coast, the new home of the Elvenfolk. He shivered again at the memory.

  He’d take their weed, and he’d take their coin, but it didn’t mean that he held them in anything less than disdain, or, more properly, he thought, fear.

  Still, when Crawlord Elstar had leant over and given him his instructions, he had nodded, the words dried to ash in his throat.

  ‘It smells different to me, human. It smells strange. Go and seek out the cause of that strangeness, and report your sights back to us and you will be rewarded, with the best of pipeweeds, and if we are especially pleased with your words, then there will also be some harroweed for you. Does the idea please you, human? I think it does; yes, I see it in your eyes. You hunger for its burn, do you not?’

  Jimmywood had looked up into his beautiful glowing blue eyes, so out of place in his long haggard face, and he’d nodded.

  ‘Yes, my Lord. You see everything. You see me.’

  ‘Remember that, human. Remember it if your hunger for the harroweed does not draw you back to me, remember that I see you, and you would not wish for me to have to leave my woods on your behalf, would you human?’

  Jimmywood had made an attempt to take a step back, but a heavy veined hand had taken a sudden fierce grip on his arm.

  ‘Yes, my Lord. I mean, no my Lord.’

  ‘For as you well know, we leave our beloved woods for one reason only. What is that reason, human? Can you tell me that reason? Do you have the words?’

  ‘To kill, Lord.’ Even as he had spoken the words, Jimmywood had known that one day he too would feel the truth in those words.

  He shook his head to shake away the thoughts, and then he stopped to appraise the wall that blocked the road. It was a pitiful attempt at security. Barely ten feet in height, and stretching from a square block of cliff to his right down to the edge of the beach on his left, it would offer no defense at all if the Elvenfolk ever deigned to attack; they would swarm all over the wall within seconds.

  The road led through a broad, arched entrance, open to all who would come this way, and he took that as an invitation. As he passed through the low arch, he glanced at the heavy wooden doors to either side; old and shod with iron.

  Standing by each door was a guard; tall men, dressed only in cloaks and tunics. They were armed but wore no armour, and they were leaning against the doors as if they expected no trouble today, or any other day.

  Jimmywood gave a nod to the guard on his right and carried on a few paces.

  Then he stopped, to take in the sights.

  To his left the beach led to a broad harbour; sheltered on each side by white stone seawalls. In the harbour, he could see five ships nestling up to the stone dock. Four of them were low broad workhorses; designed to crawl along the coast from one town to the next; never leaving sight of the land. The fifth ship was different; taller and narrower, with a full set of masts; sails furled tightly along the cross-spars. It seemed bred for the deep sea. What was it doing in a place like this?

  He looked to his right at the narrow crescent shaped town that cupped the harbour. Buildings of wood and stone, narrow streets and open squares. Even from here he could see that it was clean and prosperous, unlike every other town on this coast; desperately lurching from shortage to shortage.

  As he walked forward into the town proper, he decided that Crawlord Elstar was correct; there was something odd about this town. Something obvious that should have sprung to mind immediately, and something less clear that would require some ferreting out on his behalf.

  He walked through the streets, quiet for late afternoon, and came to a tavern that faced the harbour. He ducked beneath the low entrance and found himself in a low wide room that smelled of ale and weed, and unwashed men.

  He found that he had a thirst on him, so he grunted a greeting to a group at a long table and strode to the bar.

  'What can I do for you, stranger?' asked the woman behind the bar, as she draped her thick arms across its scratched surface.

  'I'll have two tankards of your best, m'dear, if you like.'

  'Two tankards? So you're not alone?' She was already drawing the ale.

  'Oh, I am alone, m'dear, but I am thirsty.'

  'Well, we can't have that, can we sir? A thirsty man is an insult.'

  She handed the first tankard to him. He took it from her with both hands and drew it to his lips.

  She watched him drink, her hands on her hips and the second tankard undrawn.

  'Well, well; now that is a thirst,' she said, as he put the empty tankard on the bar.

  He sighed and wiped one arm across his mouth. Then he smiled at her at said, 'Did you lose count, m'dear?'

  She laughed. 'Oh there's another one coming, don't worry about that. Now, I'll see some coin first, if you don't mind. If you'd be so kind.'

  'That's fine by me, m'dear, and kind to allow a little thirst quenching before you ask.' He rummaged inside his shoulder bag and pulled out his purse. It was heavy with Elvenfolk coin, but that was too rich for a place such as this, so he withdrew a silver coin and one of copper.

  'That will cover my ale for the night and a room besides, I think.' He handed the silver coin over. 'And this is for your gracious self, m'dear.' He slipped the copper disc into her hand.

  With a quick movement, she hid the copper coin about her person and took his empty tankard from the bar. 'Take a seat sir and I'll bring it over.'

  'Mighty kind, that is, m'dear.' He turned and took himself a seat by the window. He could see the ships nestled in the harbour, and three of the streets leading up from the docks.

  He was on his fourth tankard, or it could have been his fifth, when he received an offer of company.

  'How you doing mister?' she said, her voice slightly slurred.

  He looked up slowly and found that he was smiling. She was comely; he'd give her that, though her round cheeks were a little flushed, and her hair had seen neither soap nor brush for a little too long. Her clothes were clean enough and well filled, he thought as he gestured for her to sit.

  Was she after his ale, his purse or his body? He thought as she settled down, and chuckled at the very idea.

  'Will you take a drink, m'dear?' he asked, as he waved a hand toward the bar. 'It's already paid for.'

  'So you knew I was coming?' There was a twinkle in her eyes.

  'I've been waiting all day for you, m'dear.'

  Within a couple of moments, she was back with two tankards in her hands, and a frowning barmaid behind her back.

  'What do they call you, m'dear?'

  'They call me May, 'cause I may, and then, I may not.' She slurped her ale and looked filled with happiness.

  This was an opportunity to gather information about the place, from a drunken local, but he had drunk enough himself to lose the will for clever talk.

  So they drank together, Jimmywood and May, and spoke of nothing of consequence, and when the night tired and drew to its end, she gave him one of her twinkling smiles and said, 'Would sir like comfort in the night?' Her words were soft and breathless.

  Jimmywood stood as upright as he could and bowed. But he did not take her up on her offer. Not because she did not appeal to him, or because age was too much of an impediment. He didn't need what she had to offer because he had his own comfort to carry him through the night.

  In bed in the cramped room above the bar, he opened his shoulder bag and pulled out his pipe and pouch. With the empty pipe hanging from his lips, he rustle
d through the pouch, moving his pipeweed to one side until he found the little parcel of harrowed that Elstar had allowed him. With a sigh he withdrew a thumbnail's portion of the dark loamy weed and pressed it into the bowl of his pipe. He paused for a moment, as if he was actually considering not lighting it, then he did.

  Sitting back against the wall he drew a deep breath of the acrid smoke. It burned his mouth and throat, then it caught and he sighed and began to fall, like a child falling from God's grasp he fell, knowing full well that one day he'd hit the ground. For now, the fall was everything.

  Chapter 24 Jumba

  The fine clothes made his skin itch, and the stiff collar of his whitefox cloak kept catching on his ears, but he stood as calmly as he could as he waited to be called.

  The slim man standing just before him, covered in all manner of richly coloured silk, and seemingly without the strength to keep his wrists from drooping, eyed him with disdain.

  ‘Are you ready…sir?’ His voice was a little high for Jumba’s liking, and there was something of a lisp.

  Jumba nodded and tried to ignore the pinching of his fancy new boots.

  ‘Good. Now, walk with your head lowered in a respectful manner. Do not look up even if you are spoken to, if he deigns to speak to one such as you. Do not rush as you approach the throne, but do not tarry. He will not like to be kept waiting. Now.’

  The man spun on his heels and placed himself in the centre of the double doorway that opened on to the king’s audience chamber.

  ‘I announce the entrance of Jumba Desee Esquire, Plenipotentiary of Lord Richard of Hesselton, seeking the pleasure of your majesty.’

  With a wave of one limp arm, he guided Jumba into the chamber.

  With his head down as instructed, Jumba strode forward, and tried not to wince at his crushed toes. He ignored the quizzical glances from the courtiers lining the walls of the long room and concentrated on walking in a straight line on legs that had grown weak all of a sudden.

  As he walked, he rehearsed the words he planned to say, to be sure that he’d get them all in the right order.

  ‘What is this?’ The voice was loud, confident and more than a little strident.

  Jumba was barely half way across the room, but he risked a quick glance up at the flashing eyes and hard frown of the King, leaning forward on his high throne.

  ‘You…your Majesty,’ said Jumba, as he came to stop. ‘I repres…’

  ‘Come closer, man. You can’t expect me to hear your muttering from over there.’

  Jumba puffed out his cheeks and wished that he could be somewhere else. Then he began to walk once more, taking care to keep his head down.

  ‘Where is Lord Richard?’ This voice was hoarse and creepy. ‘Why am I required to look at…this thing?’

  There were one or two titters from the courtiers.

  ‘I beg your pardon, your majesty, if you would be so kind,’ began Jumba. There, that’s not a bad start, he thought. His words were clear and polite, and his tongue hadn’t got in their way.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the king’s right hand flick to the side.

  ‘Where is Lord Richard? Why is he not before me?’ Still the same strange voice. Where was it coming from? It seemed to be directly ahead. Perhaps he was standing behind the king.

  The king’s feet jerked and knocked against each other, and he laughed, a high pitched, unsettling cackle.

  He seems to be getting agitated, thought Jumba, so he walked quicker, and then he knelt by the foot of the dais on which the throne sat.

  ‘Lord Richard was on his way, your majesty…’ As he spoke, he lifted his head a little.

  ‘On his way? And then he changed his mind, did he? Found something better to do than attend his king?’

  The king tossed his head back as he spoke, and then shook it from side to side.

  ‘No, your majesty, it weren’t like that, not at all, it weren‘t.’

  Jumba let his eyes slip to the left, and then the right. If only he could just wander off and be spared this ordeal.

  ‘In that case, please explain clearly what has happened, but be quick about it.’ The king’s voice was suddenly calm and controlled.

  Jumba looked him full in the face and he was relieved to see that the spasms that had afflicted the king had faded away.

  ‘Beg your pardon, your majesty, but he was on the road; we all were. Lord Richard, his good lady wife, and both of his young girls. And they were all eager to be here to honour your majesty.’

  The king nodded as if this was only to be expected.

  ‘And then we came upon a pair of Giants, and they were a sight to see, your majesty, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  The king suddenly turned his head to one side, and he frowned.

  ‘Then, well, we walked with them for a while and…’

  ‘Enough of this drivel! The more you speak the less clear you are.’ The king’s full attention was on him now, and his eyebrows were flicking up and down, and his voice was now harsh and coarse.

  ‘But, your majesty…’

  ‘Enough! Lord Richard is not here, as is his obvious and true duty. He must pay the price for insulting his king, for I am insulted, by this.’

  ‘But…he meant no insult, your majesty. He is your loyal servant, and he was coming, but his wife and daughter were slaughtered on the road, your majesty. It were horrible to see, your majesty. Horrible indeed.’

  ‘An insult is an insult, nevertheless,’ said the king, with a sneer and a flick of his head. He leaned forward a little, until his face was no more than a couple of feet from Jumba’s.

  ‘What would you have me do?’

  ‘Your majesty?’

  ‘What would you have me do to…respond to this heinous insult?’

  ‘But…no insult was intended; not at all. But, the man is broken, your majesty. You can’t expect…’

  ‘Oh, but I do expect. I expect my subjects to put their king before all else. Is that wrong, little man? Is that wrong?’

  ‘But…’ The king’s body spasmed, and then he was still.

  ‘Lock him away,’ he said, with his still, calm voice. ‘I will decide later what must be done.’

  Before he could say a word in response, Jumba found a guard on either side of him.

  ‘This way, son,’ said the elder guard, just to his left, ’and soon as you like. Sooner the better, before the king changes his mind.’ These last words were whispered as they guided Jumba from the centre of the hall.

  He almost reached the door, and who can say what would have happened if he had been allowed to pass through?

  ‘Wait! Bring him back to me. Now!’ The voice was hoarse, as if he’d swallowed burning stones.

  The oldest guard stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Sorry, lad,’ he said, softly. Then he turned him and marched him back to the throne.

  The king was half off the throne, his head seeming to weave back and forward, and one hand reached out towards Jumba, the fingers hooked into a claw.

  ‘I will not have it,’ he said, his voice barely a whisper. ‘We will not have it!’ His voice rose as he spoke. ’We will not have this!’ The last three words were screamed at Jumba, and there was spittle on the king’s clean shaven chin.

  The guards threw Jumba to his knees before the raging king.

  ‘Have him beaten. Have him struck with sticks and whips and stones. I want him bleeding from a thousand cuts. I want the ground red with his blood. I want to hear the screams throughout the night. And, for breakfast, I want his head on a plate, lightly roasted…and stuffed with…whatever.’

  The lead guard bowed to his king, and then he dragged Jumba back to his feet.

  ‘Before you, your majesty? Or shall we take him to the dungeons and beat him there…your…majesty?’ A hush fell on the crowd at the harshness of his tone.

  ‘Do it here. Let me see the blood fly. Let me hear him scream and beg for mercy. Mayhap I’ll take my sword and sep
arate his ugly head from his lumpy body, when you have finished.’

  The guard lowered his head for a second, and then he pushed Jumba back to his knees.

  As his knees touched the ground, the guard struck him across the temple with the handle of his knife. Jumba fell unconscious to the ground.

  There was an awkward silence then, for a moment, as all the eyes in the room fell on Jumba’s prostrate body.

  ‘There is little point in beating a man who is unconscious,’ said the king, with a jerky shake of his head.

  ‘No, your majesty,’ said the guard, with a movement that might have passed as a shrug.

  ‘Take him away, awaken him, and then beat him. Beat him through the night. Understood, Sergeant Cragmur? Through the night. If he loses consciousness again, then stop the beating and wake him up again, and then continue with the beating.’

  With a shudder, the king sat back on his throne and closed his eyes.

  With a nod of his head, Cragmur called a pair of guards over and they picked up Jumba’s still body.

  As he led them from the room, Cragmur prayed that the king would be himself in the morning.

  Chapter 25 Meldon

  Meldon screamed until he could scream no more, but he held on, refusing to release the Stone.

  The stench of his burning flesh was nothing to him.

  The white bones now visible were nothing to him.

  The agony that ripped through his body was nothing to him.

  The Stone was everything. The Magic was everything.

  At last, the Wellstone released him, satiated and quiescent, and he fell back on to the hard floor.

  He laughed as his hands healed and the pain flew from his body. He roared as the Magic coursed through his body, his skin tingling with the potential to achieve whatever he wished for.

  With a smooth, liquid movement, he regained his feet and turned to the door. On the other side of the door was a guard. He had placed him there earlier to stop the courtiers from bothering him. With a thought, he stopped the man’s heart, right there in his chest, and he laughed as he heard the thud of his fall.