by J Battle
'You'll leave me all alone again?'
'Ay, and you can get back to your mourning. All those poor men; they need you, and you've been wasting your time with me.'
'If you have to go, then you have to go, and that will be right enough. But you can break your fast with me first, can you not? And mayhap you'll have a few draws on a pipe, afore ye go. I do love the smell of pipeweed around the house, but the taste don't agree with me, it don't.'
'Ay, Ellaine, I'll smoke your pipe while you make breakfast, if that suits you well enough.'
'It’s the best pipeweed I could buy, and it may be a little rich for you.'
'Don't worry none about me, Ellaine. I've smoked the best and the worst, and I'm still here.'
'Here, BobbyJ, let me get it for you. You just relax there on the bed, and rest yourself, before you start your long journey.'
BobbyJ lay back on the bed, with his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes. He was right to take a little time to recover before he returned to the road, he thought, and Ellaine surely had a fine and vigorous touch.
'There you are, lad. Take a deep draw of that, and you'll be fine enough while I make you a man's breakfast. But be careful, now. It is strong stuff, and it might catch somewhat in your throat.'
'Don't you worry, my dear old lady.'
He placed the smooth pipe-stem to his lips and drew a deep breath.
The smoke was sharp and acrid, and stronger than he'd expected. Then it caught in his throat and he began the fall; the endless fall into blackness.
Ellaine smiled as she watched his eyes glaze over, and his breathing seemed to stop, just for a moment. Then he shuddered, and his breathing restarted; shallow and quick as he lost himself in the depths of the harroweed's grip.
‘There, there, my sweet lad,’ she said as she eased the pipe from his unfeeling fingers and pushed him back on to the bed. ‘There’s no rush; no rush at all. You can abide with Ellaine a little longer, can you not? And if you decide never to leave again, then your Ellaine will make it all worthwhile for you. Yes, indeed I will, my dearie.’
She left him to his dreams, such as they were, for who knew what terrors might beset a man lost to the weed?
With a slight groan, she settled herself on her knees before BobbyJ’s bag.
‘They be lost, and never to return, under this old sun,
But I remember their names, each and every one.’
She sang softly, as if she barely heard the words, and loosened her hair. She brushed it with an old, pearl handled brush, and she smiled at how dark her hair was becoming, and her hands, so smooth and, even yesterday, she would never have been able to kneel on this hard floor.
She smiled also at the bag, resting on the floor. She had no wish to touch it, and she could see the danger, for old Magic and new Magic must never mix. That much she knew, though the results of such contact were unknowable to her, and anyone who thought to say different would merely blowing hot air in her considered opinion.
She was sustained by Magic so old that it was timeless, and knowledge of its powers was lost to thinking creatures these ages past.
The Magic of the Wellstone was so new that it was raw and hard and painful. Even so, it was almost gone from the land.
Yet still she could feel its power washing over her even as she knelt before it, and there was a strange, self-destructive compulsion drawing her to its fiery embrace.
But she would not lay her hands on its cold, hard, burning flesh; not today at least.
She knew the Stone of old; not this one of course, but it mattered little. The Stones, they always knew her, and they were eager to give the years back to her, for she was Elaine the Woewearer, and it was her place to witness the fall of Man; a curse perhaps, or a blessing. Today, as the youth rushed back to her blood, she felt the blessing.
‘I’ll cry for them, tonight once more, and my tears shall flow.
Each one’s name shall pass my lips, names only I can know.’
She sang, as she moved easily to her feet, and she tossed her jet-black hair back over her shoulders.
She took an old broom from the corner and pushed the bag closer to the sleeping boy.
‘There you go, my dearie,’ she said as she flicked the flap of the bag open with the handle of her broom. When the dull brown stone was revealed, she took BobbyJ’s right arm by the wrist and dropped his hand onto the stone. ‘There you go, my dearie, now you can feed until you be full.’
*********
‘Well now, Dryan. Have you enjoyed your little stay in your Master’s dungeons?’
Dryan approached the heavy bars.
‘My Lord, I believe it is fair to say that a lesson has been learned by your humble servant…’
‘Humble, Dryan? You’ve never been humble in your life.’
‘Ay, my Lord Lydorth, you jest at my expense.’
Lydorth walked closer, until only the bars separated them.
‘Well now, Dryan, you’ve spent some time here, and you probably expect me to laugh at you a while longer and then release you.’
‘Well, if I may say so my Lord, locked away here in your dungeons, I feel that I am unable to serve you to the best of my abilities, if you don’t mind me saying.’
‘Yes; serving me to the best of your abilities. That is the least that a master should expect from his servant. Do you not think so, Dryan?’
‘Of course, my lord. It is no more than I have done for all of my adult life.’
‘Serving your master; being honest; fulfilling every instruction to the letter; never deceiving your master.’
‘Ay, my Lord.’
‘Ah, Dryan it was mere whim on my part to lock you away; for a little sport at your expense, if you like. But you will not be surprised to see that, even in jest, your master can see though your ruses and deceptions.’
‘But, master…’
‘Hold your words, there, Dryan. They’ll be to no avail, for I see the truth of the matter, and you are condemned.’
‘But, master…I only…’
‘If I had all the time in the world, I could stand here before you and let you witter your defense. But I have things to do, and your words would mean nothing. I know what you did, and more importantly, what you did not do. We have a witness. You sent away his first-born, and made him pretend that she was killed, but, you see, when he had the chance to tell the truth to his master, or lose his second and third-born, well the truth sprang to his lips. He fairly gushed the words out, very much in the same way his blood gushed from his many wounds as he expired into a bloody mess on the floor.’
Dryan looked down; unable to look up at the gloating face of the Trytor.
‘So, now we have to come to a decision, don’t we Dryan, as to the punishment. As my trusted adviser over so many years, what is your advice now?’
Dryan lifted his face, and met his master's eyes.
'I would say that no punishment is due to a man who has done naught but right, my Lord.' He spoke softly, and did not look away.
'Right, Dryan? Is it right to disobey and deceive your master?'
'In this my Lord, yes. For you were wrong, my Lord; and you must see that. You have your whims, and that is well enough, but this was too far.'
Lydorth shook his great head and turned away from the cell.
'I'll leave you some time, and time for your Master. Time to think and consider and see. For you to see how wrong you have become, and for me to decide the appropriate punishment for your crimes. If you can sleep, perhaps your dreams will free you for a short time, but you shall never be free again.'
He stomped across the room and through the arched doorway.
Dryan closed his eyes for a moment as he heard his heavy tread on the stone stairs.
'Well, it seems you’ll be staying a little longer than you thought.' The voice was a little croaky, but clear enough for all that.
Dryan opened his eyes and looked across to the opposite cell.
'Garraldi, isn't it?' he asked.
'You've been down here long enough, I think, and you're still alive.'
'I've never had the strength to die.'
'But the Trytor sustains you, for your brother; does he not?'
'Ay, it has been said.'
'My daughter. Did you speak to her also? Or were you as quiet as you have been these few days?'
'She was lonely for conversation, and I did what I could; poor as my attempt was.'
'How was she? How did she seem?'
'Fair enough, if you allow for her situation. She spoke of you; I expected you to be taller; from her words.'
'And where is she now?'
'The Trytor does not share his considerations with me, but she'll be somewhere better, I expect, for she could hardly be in a worse place.'
Dryan nodded as he considered Garraldi's words.
'Do we feed today?' he said, abruptly.
'Well, we didn't yesterday, so we can live in hope.'
'Good; good.'
'Your mind is failing you if you think the food might be good.'
'No, it's not the food I'm waiting for. It's the person who will deliver it.'
'You have some sort of plan developing inside your head?'
'Ay, that's right enough. I'm done with the Trytor and his business.'
'I expect he's done with you also, if I heard his words aright.'
'Well, I don't intend for him to have the chance to wreak his displeasure on me.'
Garraldi sighed, as if he already knew what was coming.
'What do you plan?' he asked; just to get it over and done with and be back to his dark quiet corner.
'Why. I'm going to escape, man. What else?'
‘Your daughter said very much the same words. I think,’ said Garraldi, almost to himself.
He moved back to the far corner of his cell and lowered his bony buttocks to the hard floor. There are four walls and no windows, he could have said. The only exit leads to the rulehall, which the Trytor never leaves, he could have added.
But he said none of this. He kept his council to himself and returned to the only task he would allow to occupy his mind. The simple task of staying alive.
Chapter 58 Fleur
She hardly slept all night, as she fretted and moved and sweated, but when dawn came, she was fast asleep.
‘Awaken,’ a voice seemed to whisper into her ear. ’Awaken now. Danger approaches.’
‘What?’ Fleur threw her head from side to side.
‘Awaken, now.’
‘But…’ She sat up and peered around the gloomy room; the empty gloomy room.
‘Leave your bed and escape before they come. You put us both at risk.’
‘How can you be speaking…?’
‘We can discuss that when we are safe. Quickly, you must move now and find a way to leave the palace without being seen.’
‘I…’ She pulled a dressing gown from the chair beside the bed. ‘I don’t know which way to go.’
‘There must be an exit at the back of the palace. Go now, or else we are lost, and your sacrifice will be wasted.’
Fleur opened the door quietly and peeked her head through, but the corridor was empty. Quickly, she rushed from the room and began to run as best she could along the corridor.
‘Wait. Where are you going?’
‘What? I’m just doing what you said!’
‘You can’t go without the Wellstone. We’ll need the Wellstone.’
‘But…’
‘Just go and get it. It won’t harm you now as it is already fed. But I…we will need to feed on its Magic.’
‘No, I won’t do that again…’
‘They are at the front of the palace now. Move quickly and do as I say with no more questions.’
Fleur retraced her steps and continued past her rooms to those that had belonged to Meldon, and the prince before him.
Without stopping to think about it, she pulled the chest from its hiding place and turned to leave. She stopped abruptly when she saw her image in a mirror. With her distended stomach, lined face and white hair, she could see nothing of herself in the reflection.
She reached out a hand as if to comfort the poor woman in the mirror, and a sob escaped her lips.
‘Now!’
She closed her eyes for a second.
‘Alright,’ she said. ‘I’m going.’
As she left the room with the chest in her hands, she heard banging and shouting from the floors below. The scream that followed spurred her on without any further commands from the creature she carried in her belly.
She found some narrow stairs at the rear of the palace that would lead her down to the ground floor. As she began to descend, understanding of what was happening came to her.
‘It’s only Rekk and his mates. That’s all it is. No need to get all frightened and panicky about it. They won’t hurt us. We’ll come to no harm from them.’
‘People are dying down there. Do you think Rekk can control them? Keep on going. If we are to be sure that no harm will come to us, we must hide for now, until the day at least.’
‘Well…’ She was about to argue, because she had reason to, and she liked an argument, but her feet were already moving, seemingly of their own accord. She certainly hadn’t told them to start again.
‘What’s happening? What are you doing to me?’
There was silence in her head as her legs continued to carry her down the dimly lit stairs, quite against her will.
Chapter 59 Cavour
Consciousness returned to Cavour, and he did not count it a blessing, for it was accompanied by pain beyond anything he'd known before.
He couldn't move, because that would only hurt more. He couldn't look at his broken limb, because that would entail some movement.
He could be bleeding to death, all in a rush, as he lay in the undergrowth beneath the trees, or perhaps he was bleeding away slowly and there was time for him to be saved, by some passer-by, if such there should be.
He reached out with his left land, to see if he could gauge the damage done to him. At the last minute, he dropped his hand to the ground. He couldn't bear to touch his leg, lest all he would feel would be broken, exposed bones.
The ground was damp beneath his hand.
He lifted his hand towards his face. In the dim evening light, he could see the blood spread across his fingers.
There didn't seem too much, he reassured himself, so mayhap an artery had not been cut. Unless, he thought, the ground was thirsty and sucking up his life-blood, and it was gushing from his broken thigh, and he had only minutes left of this pain to endure.
He tried to clear his mind, but all he could think of was the pain, and the blood, and the pain.
Something had awakened him.
What was it?
Was it the cold wind blowing down from God's Saddle? Was that it? He wouldn't bleed to death after all. He'd die of exposure instead.
He shivered as the icy blast sucked the heat from his body. He should move further into the trees, to get a little shelter, he thought. Then he laughed. The very idea of moving his leg even an inch was ridiculous.
No, he'd stay where he was, and see which means of passing would hold sway. Which stroke of death's great scythe would put an end to the agony which seemed to tower over him like a great beast, eating him tiny morsel by tiny morsel.
His observation of death's hand was interrupted when he heard a sudden thud, just a little behind his head.
'He's back!' he whispered; his voice an unintelligible croak.
Again, he thought to move, to escape the crawlord's assault, but, in reality, what could he do to make the pain worse?
He felt a hand across his chest, and some small part of his mind made note that the hand covered the whole of his chest, from his ribs to his shoulders.
He hadn't thought the crawlord's hands were that big.
'Hold thee still.' A voice that he could only describe as large spoke to him.
'Don't…' What he might have said was overrun by the scream that seemed to take his lungs along with it.
'Hold thee still, stranger, and let me see what's to be seen.'
The single hand held him in place, and then something else began to pull and tug at his leg, and the blessing of unconsciousness rushed back to him.
He awoke years later, or perhaps it was merely minutes.
All he knew was that something had changed.
He looked around and saw that he was inside, which was good, as that meant that one way to die had been removed.
He was on a bed and, after patting around with his hand for a moment, he found that there was no blood. So, he wouldn't be bleeding to death anytime soon.
He lifted his head as carefully as he could, and he saw that his leg was heavily splinted, and tightly wrapped in some coarse cloth.
It still hurt; yet, if he measured it on a scale of one to ten, it was probably close to eight. Before he'd lost his senses, it would have easily surpassed 20.
Someone has rescued me, he thought, as he dropped his head back onto the bed.
Knowing that he wasn't going to die set all sorts of thoughts rushing through his mind.
Before he had a chance to examine them, the door opened and the biggest man he'd ever set his eyes on walked into the room.
'Ye be awake? Ay, that's good then.'
He walked closer and put a hand that Cavour could have comfortably sat in to his forehead.
'No heat? That's good; means no fever. Lucky man, you are.'
'Who… Thank you for saving me, sir. I would surely have perished, if you had not passed by.'
'Ay, man, you're right enough there, and that's as sure as up is up, and down ain't.'
'May I have the name of the man who rescued me?'
'Ay, 'cause it cost nothing to give, and I'll still have it when I do. My name is Rootheart, and I named myself, as no-one else cared to, or if I lived at all.'
'Thank you, Rootheart, for saving me and fixing up my leg. Are you a soothnurse, mayhap?'
'Nay, man. I'm not; though I think I've done a fair enough job with your leg.'
Cavour studied him for a moment. He wasn't just tall, although he was a good head taller than he was himself. No, he was also twice as wide as your average man, and twice as thick.