by J Battle
‘I do this for the honour of the Trytor,’ he announced, and then he turned to leave.
‘Oh, brother dearest,’ said Lydorth, with a look of concern on his face.
Brudorth stopped, half way to the doors. ‘What?’
‘Before you go off all huffing and puffing for the honour of the Trytor, you might want to know where you are going?’
Brudorth sighed, and he waited. And then he sighed again, for he knew full well that his idiot brother would make him ask.
‘Where is the Giant?’ he said, with little in the way of strength in his voice.
‘I could tell you, but you have been quite rude to me recently. Perhaps a ‘please’ is in order?’
There was a long pause. Brudorth knew that the eyes of all three of his brothers were on him, but he could not bring himself to say the word.
He turned and glared at Lydorth.
‘Dryan!’ he bellowed.
There was a rush of scurrying feet and Dryan appeared.
‘Yes, my Lord Brudorth?’ he said, nervously glancing from one Trytor to the other.
‘Where is the Giant?’
‘The Giant, sir?’
‘The Giant who is about to die.’
‘Oh, he is at the Drunken Dragon, sir; just this side of Frowning Skull Pass.’
‘Frowning Skull Pass? Where is that, man?’
‘It used to be simply called Verdant Pass,‘ interrupted Lydorth. ’Before Ashlorn got drunk and had a massive skull carved into the side of the mountain there.’
‘I never ordered that!’ protested Ashlorn.
‘You were very drunk, brother. It took them five years to complete the task. You should be wary of your whims, brother.’
Ashlorn snorted and looked away from his annoying youngest brother.
‘Why is it called Frowning Skull? Can a skull even frown?’ asked Teldorn.
‘Well, it’s hardly likely to be smiling, is it?’ answered Lydorth
When Brudorth had gone off in a rush, full of excitement, Ashlorn called Teldorn to him.
‘Follow him and makes sure he doesn’t get himself hurt too badly. If you have to, step in and kill the Giant yourself.’
‘Yes, brother. Don’t you worry, it’s all in hand.’
Chapter 43 Elstar
Crawlord Elstar moved quietly through the trees, his long angular body hidden in the shadows. His passage might have been easier if he'd stepped out onto the clear space by the river bank, but he did not care for the feel of the bright morning sun on his aged skin, so he remained beneath the trees.
He came to the edge of the forest and the road that led to Hesselton and beyond, and settled his bony behind in the soft undergrowth.
Blodness would have laughed to see him here, waiting for the return of his creature, like some desolate bride. But that was the reason he was here, hoping to hear the good news at the earliest possible moment. And this time he was absolutely certain that he would be proved right, that Magic had returned to the world.
He felt himself slather at the very thought that soon he would be able to put the shadows and the night behind him, and walk lithe and un-aged in the light of day, and maybe even sire a new generation of Elvenfolk.
When his man returned with the good news, he'd gather together a band of likeminded crawlords, keeping the discovery secret from the higher lords and doubters, although he’d tell Blodness, just to see her smile.
In the hush of night, they would make their assault on the human town and he himself would carry back the source of this Magic, the most sought after Wellstone.
And all would be well with the world once more.
**********
Jimmywood stood by the wall, one hand on its cool surface.
It was hard to believe that the explanation given for the wall's existence was anywhere close to the truth.
The wall was twenty feet high and stretched as far to the right as he could see. To the left, it stopped at a channel of water flowing noisily from a wide pipe half way up the wall and disappearing through a grate into the ground. It was made up of massive black stones, as high as a man, and twice as wide.
In the centre of the wall was a stone stairway that led to its top.
Jimmywood looked around, but the streets seemed empty. He gathered his cloak about him and began to climb.
At the top, he bent and trailed his fingertips through the water. 'Hot water spring be damned', he muttered quietly, 'this water be as cold as Roland's balls.'
He stood upright and felt the cold wind blowing down from the mountains. The cold wind that did not disturb the curtain of mist that was draped over the cool water of the reservoir.
He walked along the wall toward the right and came to a short protuberance that stretched four or five feet out into the water. A little dock, he thought, for people who might have the need to cross the water?
He shivered then; not from the cold, but from the realisation that he did not need Crawlord Elstar's nose to find Magic, for he was certain that Magic had been found.
Perhaps his musings distracted him, or the sound of the water covered the noise, but he was almost caught there standing on the wall, staring at the mist.
If she had not been singing to herself as she walked through the dark streets, then he would have had some explaining to do.
‘I lost my lover, to another’s smile, mmm, mmm, mmm, then he saw she was full of…guile.’
Her voice was sweet, if a little hesitant, and it would have been better if she’d taken the time to learn the words of the famous song.
He stepped to his left, and then to his right. Then he froze, for there was nowhere to hide. When the songstress reached the top of the steps, he would be seen.
There was no other choice for him, so he eased his body into the cold clasp of the reservoir and tried not to groan as the chill hit him.
The young lady stepped onto the wall, dressed in a fine cloak and a hood that hid her hair. She marched quickly to the dock and groaned; perhaps at not finding the hoped-for boat tied up and waiting for her.
Then she spun away and strode back the way she'd come. She stopped at the top of the steps and turned to face the water. She paused for a moment as if undecided, then she sighed and gathered her skirts together in one hand, exposing pale calves to the clear moonlight. She kicked off her shoes and picked them up with her free hand, and then she was ready.
With a little yelp as the cold hit her legs, she stepped out onto the water and began to walk across its surface, her stride long and confident. The mist gathered around her and she was gone.
Jimmywood was left behind, stunned and a little confused. He'd expected to see Magic here, but not like this. Magic was hard; Magic hurt; everyone knew that, even though it had been lost for so long. This casual use of Magic, by someone who was surely not a mage certainly raised more questions than it answered.
As he dragged his waterlogged body from the water, he decided that this needed some thought, and mayhap more than a little harroweed.
Perhaps he would have returned to his room to consider what should be done, and spent the rest of the night drifting in the strong weed’s spell, leaving reality to its own devices. But, as he took his first step from the top of the wall, the essence of his situation struck him.
He could walk away now and leave Hesselton behind him, go back to the Elvenfolk’s forest redoubt and tell Crawlord Elstar what he’d seen. Describe the small town with too many ships and too many people in its too clean street. Speak of the ridiculous reservoir and its mantle of mist. And of course, he could tell of the lady who walked on water. Altogether these things had only one answer; one explanation. And that answer was Magic; there was Magic about in this town; there could be no doubt.
And Elstar would thank him, and reward him for his efforts on behalf of his master, and give him a generous supply of harroweed.
That was one possible course for him; the easy one.
Unless he’d simply got everything wrong. The
re was no Magic, and it was perfectly reasonable for a prosperous little town to be visited by so many ships and have such a throng on its streets, and perhaps he’d dozed and dreamt of the water walking woman.
He needed proof and falling into the arms of the harroweed wouldn’t be of any use in that respect.
He turned and stepped back onto the wall. He stared at the mist. It was thickest at his height, but thinner as it neared the water. Did that make sense? A cold wind over cold water; how does that create a mist? A mist that is unruffled by the wind.
Fine, he thought, that much is on the side of Magic.
He turned his attention to the water and dipped his staff into its dark depth. It was as deep as he could reach with the seven-foot length of wood.
He walked along the wall for a while, walking back and forward. Then returned to the top of the steps and faced the water, just as she had done.
He took his staff and prodded the water again; and he found it. The path she had taken, hidden beneath the dark surface of the water. It was a raised road, just a few inches below the surface.
He laughed and removed his boots; tying them together and slinging them over his shoulder. Then he stepped out onto the water.
He looked down and he could have sworn that he was indeed walking on water, but his bare feet felt the submerged path.
A counter argument against Magic then.
He walked forward into the mist, prodding with his staff to ensure that his feet did not stray from the way.
Which side of the coin does this fall on? He thought. Folly or bravery?
Too soon to say, he thought, far too soon.
If he’d known that he was being watched by unknown eyes behind him; observed by men with strict instructions that he should not return from beyond the mists and leave Hesselton, then perhaps he would be able to take a reasonable attempt at an answer to his question.
But he had no such knowledge, so he carried on, splashing and prodding at the water, until the inexplicable mist hid him from view.
Chapter 44 Prince Torn
He opened his eyes.
He stared at the ceiling. It wasn’t his ceiling. Why wasn’t it his ceiling? He was in bed, so why wasn’t it his ceiling?
There was an answer to that question; he was certain of that, but what it might be, he could not say.
‘I am Prince Torn,’ he thought, for his mouth wouldn’t work. ’I am the prince and I’m in someone else’s bed. How could that be?’
Could he be in bed with another? Was that the answer?
But, no. He was alone; he felt alone, though he couldn’t turn his head or move his hand to check.
His eyes focused on the window directly across from him. It was a high, narrow window, with a broad arch at the top. It seemed familiar somehow. If he recognized the window, then it must be in his palace. The narrow, high window? The ground-floor rooms had such windows, and there were guest-rooms on the ground-floor.
‘So, I’m in a guest-room.’ He wasn’t going to worry about who put him here, or why he couldn’t move; there was time for all that.
But there was a feature of the guest-rooms that had sprang into his mind; a deliberate feature. The guest-rooms could be locked from outside, but not from the inside. He’d thought it a good idea at the time, in the eventuality that he’d want to keep a guest where he wanted him.
Now, he was a little less sure of the wisdom of that choice, because this bedroom suddenly began to feel like a cell.
He groaned, and found that he could move his head, a little, from side to side, and prove his opinion on his aloneness to be accurate.
He had a quick memory flash. Meldon bending over him, concern writ large across his coarse features, and there was an arrow, with a black tarry substance coating its sharp head.
‘Poison, that’s what it was,’ he whispered, out loud, his dry throat croaking.
So, after the fight, with the challenger defeated, he had been hit by an arrow. Here.
He was able to lift his right hand and touch the left side of his chest. It was still a little sore, but no real pain. ‘The Magic saved me.’
He reached for the Magic, but there was barely a taste of it here, and an echo of it there, though the poison was gone, burned away by the Magic.
‘I will survive,’ he said.
Then he saw Meldon’s face, bending over him, and what was that expression on his face? Passion? No. Lust? No. He’d seen that look before. What did it remind him of? Then it came to him, and he smiled. It was a sour smile, with little in the way of humour contained within it, but it was a smile nonetheless.
When he was a boy, he’d possessed a cat, and the cat loved to hunt. When it was sure that it had its prey cornered, it would pause for a moment, and stare down at the poor creature, and then it would pounce.
That was the expression he’d seen on Meldon’s face.
He took a deep breath; and then another.
Then he rolled over onto his side and pushed himself upright on the bed.
His head spun with the effort, but it was something. He wasn’t going to lie on this bed and wait for Meldon to return and pounce. Not if he still had strength in his body. Not if he still had the last remnants of his Magic.
‘Guard,‘ he called, with a little more strength in his voice. ‘Open the door.’
He waited, and fought the temptation to lie back down. ‘Guard! Open this door, this minute!’
He placed his feet on the floor. It was cold to the touch, and his feet were bare.
Then he heard footsteps; two, four, six. Getting fainter. The guard was walking away from the door.
Had he heard his words? If he had, why didn’t he open the door? He surely would recognize his prince’s voice. Unless…unless he’d gone to fetch a superior. That could be it. He was under orders not to open the door, and he’d heard his voice and he was off to get permission to open the door.
He’d be back any moment now, with keys in hand, and the door would be opened, and he’d be…Unless he’d gone to tell Meldon that the prince was awake, and that it was time to pounce.
He rubbed his hands across his face, and then he shook his head, as if that might clear his mind. He had to act quickly, that was clear, even to his muddled thoughts.
If he could stand. If he could walk. If he could open the door. If he could walk along the corridor and up the stairs. If he could reach the Wellstone. Just a handful of ‘ifs’, that’s all they were. If he took them one at a time, perhaps he could survive.
So, first things first; stand up.
His feet were already on the floor so all he needed to do was lean forward a little and let his body do what it had done thousands of times before.
He slipped to the ground, on his hands and knees.
He was still for a moment, testing the support his limbs were able to provide.
‘This will still work,’ he said, as he began to crawl awkwardly towards the door.
Chapter 45 Cavour
Cavour laid the heavy book out on the table before him.
It was two feet long, and one and a half wide, and a good six inches thick. The dull black leather cover was scuffed and old, and he could barely make out the title.
He opened the book with a crackle and a creak, and he studied the words for a moment.
They meant nothing to him, as they were carefully printed out in a language not spoken for untold centuries.
‘Very pretty,’ he said, softly, ‘but no help at all. If I can’t read the book, how can I judge how dangerous it is?’
He closed the book and drew his tankard closer. It was not yet midday and the tavern was quiet, with just a few determined drinkers scattered about.
As he sipped his ale, he considered his next move.
He’d travelled for two days to get here, to Allstown, on the edge of the lands of Verdant. The book had been expensive, but he had managed to put aside a good portion of the money given to him by Lydorth, to help build up his freedom funds.
And now here was the book on Magic, and next he’d be required to obtain a Wellstone.
Could he trust the Trytor with access to Magic? Could he refuse him?
He sighed and shook his head, and put aside his ale. With a rustle, he pulled his pipe from his bag and began to fill his pipe.
‘Why waste your time with pointless questions, you old fool?’ he said, ‘when you know the answer to both is no.’
The barman was keeping an eye on him, as he puttered around behind his bar, and Cavour gave him a nod.
‘Do you have any scholars around these parts?’ he said, rising from his seat the better to approach the bar. ’Someone who might be a student of ancient languages?’
‘Well, there is Old Hevers,’ said the barman, after a moment’s consideration. ‘He’s old enough to have spoken an ancient language when he were young, I reckon.’
‘Yes,’ said Cavour, trying not to look too closely at the red veins covering the barman’s florid face, ‘but is he a scholar?’
‘I heard he could read, and mayhap even write, and he can sometimes look down his nose at ordinary people, if he reckons they’ve said something stupid, and, well, that’s not an uncommon happening around here, if you take my meaning.’
Cavour frowned. Was he being a little optimistic to expect a suitable scholar to be sitting around here waiting for him to knock on his door and say good day?
‘Thank you for your help, and I’ll have another tankard of ale, and one of your tatoe pies, if you please.’
He was half way home before he found a town that boasted a library and, amongst its patrons, a man educated enough to be of any use at all, perhaps.