Misthaven: The Complete Trilogy

by J Battle

  Ferrooll laughed, and then he began the business of getting up.

  ‘There’s some tealeaf and ale on their way, so you might just as well be drinking them, as I reckon I’ll be too busy for a while.’

  He was standing now, with his head ducked so as not to cause too much damage to the structure of the tavern.

  ‘Wait a minute, there. You can’t be drinking the tealeaf. You might get all burnt. I heard humans can get burnt easily. So, no, no tealeaf for you. Just have the ale, that won’t burn ye.’

  The boy watched the Giant squeeze himself through the doorway, and then he sat in the very same place that the Giant had sat, though he took up rather less of the floor.

  Lord Richard had already spotted them, from his vantage point higher up the road. There were about a dozen men, marching in rag-tag formation, and behind them lumbered the Trytor, towering over his honour guard.

  ‘Right, this is it,’ he said, as he placed his sword on the ground before him. ‘At least there’s just the one.’

  He unwrapped the bindings once more, holding the blade just beyond the guard.

  Then he flexed the fingers of his right hand, and he puffed out his cheeks.

  ‘You’ve got to do this, man, so there’s no point in putting it off.’

  And still he made no move. He remained kneeling, with the sword in his left hand, and his head bowed, seeking the strength to touch the hilt.

  He thought of his dear Lizzie, and poor Clara; of Alice, all alone.

  He stood up with a grunt and he looked along the road. Ferrooll was standing outside the tavern and the Trytor was no more than a quarter of mile away. His men had slowed, and he was now leading them, and there was eagerness in his every step.

  Richard set his jaw and exhaled through clenched teeth, and he gripped the hilt of his sword, and the Stone rejoiced.

  But he didn’t scream.

  When the Stone had had its fill, and given him his due reward, he leapt through the trees, being sure to keep away from the road, so as not to be seen.

  It wasn’t just courage that made him act, though surely it was required. Nor was it Lizzie, or Clara, or Alice.

  It was the sight of a second Trytor, a half a mile behind the first that set him to act.

  Chapter 51 Rootheart

  The return journey from the bowels of the mountain had been long and tortuous, with Anders leading Rootheart by the hand.

  Every five minutes or so, they had to stop, to give the half-giant a chance to recover some of his strength.

  ‘I will kill you when we get out, for what you’ve done to me.’ muttered Rootheart.

  ‘No you won’t, my friend. You have thus far only been exposed to the darker facets of the Wellstone. When we emerge back into fresh air, then you will see the power of the Wellstone’s Magic. Trust me.’

  ‘I’m still gonna kill you when we get out.’

  ‘Spare me for ten minutes first, then, just to see what happens. You can spare ten minutes for sure, can you not?’

  The grunt that followed didn’t sound much like an agreement.

  Then, almost without warning, they were in the cave, and through it out into the cold air of a clear spring day, with the sun as high as it was going to climb that day.

  ‘Oh, I don’t much like the cold, you know,’ groaned Rootheart.

  ‘Do you have to complain at everything?’

  ‘I think I am more than justified to complain about being sucked dry by that damned Stone.’

  ‘You survived and believe me, you will have your strength back.’

  ‘I still have the strength to rip your head from your shoulders.’

  ‘Now, my friend, we had an agreement. Look at the sky, look at the mountain, look at the ice. A fit vigorous man could make it to the head of the valley in the space of two days, but you will not require such a span of time.’

  Rootheart groaned at the very idea of crossing the river of ice in this soul destroying, unremitting cold.

  Anders took a moment to examine his companion in the bright day light. He appeared unchanged; tired of course, and stressed, but there was no obvious damage. When the current mage had first dared to touch his Wellstone, he’d aged twenty years in as many minutes, and emerged into the day with his dark hair turned to white.

  Still, Giants were long-lived creatures, counting centuries as a man would count a decade, and Rootheart’s strength might help him to endure. Now the time was due to show him what the future held for him.

  Anders had his hand still on Rootheart’s wrist. It was enough of a skin to skin contact for his purposes.

  He whispered a few potent ancient words; phrases he’d learned over many long nights as he studied at the mage’s table.

  The Wellstone was satiated and would no longer draw the strength from the half-giant; now it was ready to give, but only to the man with the words.

  Completely in tune with the rhythm of the Stone, he caused it to return Rootheart to his full strength, with more than a little extra. At the same time, he restated the words of control and directed them at Rootheart.

  The half-giant seemed to vibrate with the strength that was flooding through him.

  It seemed the most natural thing in the world for Anders to slip behind him and scamper up his broad back until he was settled on his even broader shoulders.

  ‘Carry me home, slave,’ he hissed, and then he began to laugh, for his dreams really were coming true. ‘We’ll be home long before this day draws its last breath.’

  Rootheart froze for a moment at the weight across his neck and shoulders, certain that this was something he did not like, and that he should do something about it. But what? There was an impediment in his mind that prevented a natural sequence of thoughts; that stopped him making decisions, or suiting actions to thoughts.

  So he began to run, to carry his lord and master home, as instructed.

  **********

  Cavour hesitated for a moment outside the Rulehall, shifting the heavy book from one hand to the other. This was his last chance to change his mind.

  ‘I couldn’t find it, Lord Lydorth,’ he might say.

  ‘Why have you returned without it?’ Would be the reply.

  Perhaps he could say, ‘He wouldn’t sell it, Lord Lydorth.’

  ‘Why have you returned without it?’ Would be the reply.

  Or perhaps, ‘I had it examined by experts, and it was proved to be false.’

  ‘Why have you returned without it, and the experts?’ Would be the reply.

  He sighed. ‘Mayhap I’ll just give him the book and then I can fail in the search for a Wellstone. That would work.’

  He pushed the door open. At least he’d be able to check on Garraldi, to make sure he was still alive and … He stopped, with his shoulder pressed against the heavy door. He puzzled over the half-formed thought; he knew what he had expected to be coming, something like ‘and hadn’t escaped my vengeance,’ but how close to the truth was it?

  ‘Either come in, or go out. Make your mind up, man.’

  Cavour pushed on through the door.

  ‘My Lord Lydorth,’ he said, as he marched forward, ’my mission has been a success, and I bring you your book of Magic.’

  ‘About time, you’ve been gone for absolutely ages.’ Lydorth slipped from his throne.

  ‘You are alone today, my Lord?’

  ‘Yes, you’ve missed all the excitement. Brudorth is off to fight a Giant, and Teldorn has gone to hold his hand so that he doesn’t get lost on the road.’

  ‘And my Lord Ashlorn?’

  ‘Who knows? Who cares? He’s probably lifting heavy things somewhere. He’s been doing that a lot since he killed his Giant. I think he may have felt a little embarrassed to have been so puny facing a Giant.’

  ‘Lord Ashlorn, puny?’

  ‘Oh, just give me the damned book and go and poke fun at your brother.’

  Cavour gave him the book.

  ‘There is no fun involved, my Lord. No fun at al
l.’ His voice was so cold that Lydorth looked up from the book.

  ‘Be careful, Cavour, how you speak to your master.’

  Cavour bowed his head a full inch. ‘Yes, my Lord,’ then he swept from the Rulehall.

  Chapter 52 Ferrooll

  Ferrooll stood in the yard outside the tavern, with one hand scratching his impressive belly and the other rubbing his chin.

  ‘I reckon I’ve seen this one before,’ he said, and then he smiled. Not a warm, ‘how do ye do, it’s nice to meet you,’ sort of smile. More of an, ‘I was hoping it would be you because I’m going to rip your head off,’ sort of smile.

  The Trytor stopped 10 yards or so from the Giant, and his men scattered around the courtyard, whether to secure the perimeter or just keep out of danger it would be hard to tell.

  ‘So, fat Giant. You have something to say to me, I think.’ Brudorth was standing with his legs apart and Ashlorn’s axe over one shoulder.

  ‘Something to say to you? I don’t reckon I have, skinny little Trytor.’

  Brudorth tightened his grip on the axe. It was heavy, and it made his neck ache.

  ‘In that case, I’ll just take off your head and I’ll be on my way.’ He took a step forward. It was a small step, for he had forgotten quite how big the Giant was, and, next to the other Giant, he’d seemed smaller.

  Ferrooll laughed and his belly shook as he took a step forward. It was quite a big step, even for a Giant.

  ‘My brother had a deal of fun with your fat friend, I believe.’ His next step almost matched the Giant’s and the axe was now in his hands.

  Ferrooll frowned. ‘So, it wasn’t you?’

  ‘No, but it is the latest sport for Trytors, killing Giants, and I mean to mount your head on a wall.’

  One of Ferrooll’s hands tapped his head. ‘Is it so loose?’

  Brudorth roared, and he leapt forward, and he swung the mighty axe of Ashlorn.

  Ferrooll moved forward and knocked the head of the axe to one side with his left forearm, and threw a destructive punch with his right.

  But the axe dragged Brudorth to his right, off balance and roaring, and the punch merely brushed his greasy hair.

  Brudorth rolled onto the ground and back up on his feet in one smooth movement, leaving the axe on the ground.

  With a swish, he drew his sword and swung it two-handed, with all of his strength, catching the Giant across the side of his neck.

  Ferrooll staggered to his left, and then he roared with laughter.

  ‘Ah now, little Trytor,’ he said, when he could catch his breath. ’Is that the best you can do? With your sharp little stick?’

  Brudorth struck again, jabbing the point of his sword into Ferrooll’s belly; once, twice, three times.

  Then he danced back as Ferrooll threw a punch that would have surely left him broken in the dirt.

  Ferrooll roared and charged, with both arms outstretched.

  Brudorth stepped to the side, and struck him across the back of the neck with his sword as he swept past.

  Ferrooll stumbled on, trying to regain his balance, which is hard for a Giant, once it has been lost.

  Brudorth charged after him, striking blow after blow with his sword; each one seeming to bounce of the Giant’s thick skin.

  Then, Ferrooll gained control of himself and knocked the sword from the Trytor’s hand with his fist as he turned around. Without a thought, Brudorth stepped closer and smashed his right fist against the Giant’s rock hard jaw.

  He screamed as he jerked back, his hand broken and useless, and he grasped for his knife with his left hand, his fingers suddenly clumsy as his mind was clouded with fear.

  Ferrooll moved closer and he wrapped his thick, powerful arms around the Trytor, as if he was going to hug him and say, ‘everything will be alright.’

  Then he began to squeeze, and he lifted the Trytor’s feet from the ground, and he held him there, as if he weighed nothing, as he pressed him tighter to him.

  Brudorth would have struggled, for he was not yet done, but he couldn’t move, so all he could do was kick his legs helplessly, and try to sink his teeth into the thick flesh of the Giant’s ear.

  Lord Richard saw the last of the action from across the road, as he forced his way through the thick growth. He got himself all caught up in the tough branches of the coarse bushes, as he’d not kept a careful eye on his progress.

  As he struggled to free himself, he saw Ferrooll drop the dead body of his opponent to the dirt at his feet. With a roar of triumph, he raised his fist to the sky, oblivious to the onrushing Teldorn.

  ‘Ferrooll!’ called Richard, in desperation. But his voice didn’t carry, and then it was too late.

  Ferrooll had begun to turn, some instinct guiding him, when Teldorn rammed into him, sending him stumbling towards the tavern wall.

  Before Ferrooll could regain control of himself, the Trytor was on him again, smashing two-fisted blows down on his neck.

  With a yell of anger, Ferrooll threw one arm back and sent his attacker sprawling in the dirt.

  As he turned to finish him off, he found him back on his feet and ready to fight.

  The pair faced off for a moment, both with chests heaving and eyes warily watching each other.

  ‘Are you the one?’ said Ferrooll.

  ‘Am I the one? The one who will relieve you of your miserable life?’

  ‘Are you the one who killed Belloom?’

  ‘Belloom? What a silly name. It was my brother, Ashlorn, who taught him the folly of disrespecting a Trytor. And I will do likewise now. So, if you are sufficiently rested, we should begin. I have other business to be about later, and I’d like a decent meal and a tankard or two of ale first.’

  Of all of the Trytor, with the exception perhaps of Lydorth, Teldorn was the most likely to give due consideration to the planning of any undertaking he might take on, and today was no exception.

  ‘Talk me through exactly how you defeated the first Giant,’ he’d asked of Ashlorn, before he’d set off to follow Brudorth.

  So it was that when he stepped back from Ferrooll, a brother to Ashlorn’s foil was held lightly in his hand.

  ‘What is this pointy thin weapon you have there? Ain’t seen nothing like it. Don’t seem like a weapon at all.’

  ‘You’ll see, my slow fat friend.’ With that, he lunged forward with his sword arm outstretched and rammed the point of his foil into Ferrooll’s left eye.

  Ferrooll staggered backwards, with his hand gripping the thin blade of the foil. He stopped his fall with his other hand against the wall of the tavern, and he snapped the blade in his hand.

  Teldorn fell back, with his half sword still waving before him.

  ‘That was well done, slow Giant, but it will be to no avail.’ Left-handed, he pulled a throwing knife from his belt and in the same smooth movement he threw it at the massive target ahead of him.

  His aim was barely two inches off, as it bounced off the thick ridge of bone above Ferrooll’s right eye.

  The second throw was spot on and the knife was buried hilt deep in Ferrooll’s right eye-socket.

  As the Giant roared in pain, Teldorn leapt forward and rammed the broken point of his sword at his opponent’s left eye, already blind and useless.

  The blow was a little off target and the sword was broken further against his cheekbone.

  Ferrooll roared and threw out both arms, his left catching Teldorn across the chest, causing him to lurch backwards, desperately trying to stay on his feet.

  That was the moment Richard struck, a two-handed blow that caught the beast across his left shoulder and sliced through him, all the way down to his right hip.

  Before he died, all the Trytor had time for was a surprised glare at the little man who had ended his life.

  Chapter 53 Prince Torn

  The prince walked slowly up to the dock, leaning heavily on his staff. He was wrapped in a dark hooded cloak that hid his head and kept his nightclothes from view, though his bare fee
t seemed out of place in the cool evening air.

  He’d found the cloak, staff and a heavy purse stored away carefully in the little hide-away off the Wellstone room, and glad he was to have them.

  There was a long narrow boat ahead of him, awaiting the evening tide. He approached it carefully, and tried not to groan too much at the effort.

  ‘Evening, sir,’ said the squat man working on a thick rope beside the boat. He had a pipe gripped in his teeth and his words were a little unclear.

  ‘Are you sailing tonight, man?’ asked the prince.

  ‘Don’t know why else I’d be here, if I wasn’t like, if you pardon my plain speaking.’

  ‘Plain speaking, you say?’ The prince threw back his hood. ‘Do you recognise me, man?’

  The pipe fell from the sailor’s mouth as his mouth fell open.

  ‘But…your…Yes, I recognise you, but…I’m a simple man, and I don’t know the right way to…address…my prince, if I can beg your pardon again.’

  ‘For now, ‘Sir’ will suffice, and I would have your name, sailor.’

  ‘Sir, beg pardon, sir, but it is Case, sir, it is. At your service, sir, if you like.’ Case kept his head down in what he hoped was a respectful manner.

  ‘Well, Case, I would like to sail with you tonight, and this should be kept between the two of us. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir, that’ll be fine, sir. My boy sails with me, of a night, like, because he’s got good eyes to see, he has, but don’t you worry about him none, sir, ‘cause I reckon he wouldn’t recognize himself if he looked in a mirror, like.’

  ‘I would too,’ came a voice from the within the boat, and a smaller, slimmer version of his father popped his head into view. ‘But, I won’t tell no-one, Your Highness, I won’t. Honest, I won’t’

  ‘Well, I will have to believe you for now,’ said the prince, as he began to climb into the boat.

  When he was settled on the only seat, Case untied the boat and leapt in beside him.

  ‘Where are we going tonight, then, sir?’ he asked, as he began to loop the rope around one thick wrist.