by Candy Rae
Danal had bowed to the inevitable and agreed that she should go with them to the southern continent.
As Valour and Victory begins she and Inalei, an Avuzdel Lind who has appointed himself her mount for the duration of their mission are about to land in a secluded inlet on the coast of the Duchy of Graham with the other six team members.
It is a race against time; the Dglai must be stopped before they destroy Planet Wolf.
* * * * *
Kalavdr the Largan, Hereditary Leader of the Larg, watched, a satisfied expression on his hairy face as yet another kohort of warriors arrived at the muster rock.
Anticipatory saliva began to drool from his mouth. He licked his lips.
Soon the puny humans of Murdoch would be dead and the continent belong to the Larg once more. Moreover, with the help of his allies, the Dglai, the entire planet would soon be under his paw.
All would serve him.
All would bow down before him.
All would fear him.
He was the Instrument of the Destiny of the Larg.
* * * * *
Chapter 1
First Month of Summer - Dunrhed
Zilla
Zilla Talansdochter thought about the impeding war with an increasing feeling of uselessness. Her eldest triplet sister Hilla would be in the thick of it and now Rilla and her Lind Zawlei were on their way to the war in the southern continent too.
How can I just sit here and do nothing?
Zilla knew that she would be of little use where actual fighting was concerned. She had attended arms practice classes when she had been younger but had never been much good at it. Hilla, her ambition to join the Garda when she was old enough had been excellent; as befitted one with a military career before her. Rilla had been almost as good but her passion had been for horses and she had lacked the necessary motivation. Hilla had attended the extra classes, Rilla, offered a place, had refused, preferring to ride her pony Lightfoot. Zilla had stopped attending as soon as she possibly could.
So what can I do?
Her mother seemed to think that her youngest daughter should be content to remain at the inn. There was certainly enough to do. With Zak leaving with the Militia together with quite half of the servants, those remaining (and Zilla), found themselves running from one task to another. The inn was busy, filled each night with wagon teamsters taking goods east for the war effort, the merchant houses well aware that here were profits to be made. Increasingly, Zilla found herself helping the remaining stable hands, helped by Maura, one of the room-maids who came from farming stock and who, if truth be told, preferred to work outside.
As Zilla mucked out the stalls the morning after Rilla and Zawlei’s visit she was thinking hard and making plans. By the time she had finished, her plan was complete. That night, alone in the room she had once shared with Hilla and Rilla, she packed a holdall with a couple of changes of clothes. It was still dark-night when she got up from her bed and dressed, trying to keep her movements as silent as she could. She picked up the holdall and crept out of the room, avoiding the creaking floorboard (her parent’s bedroom was right underneath) and tip-toed down the stairs.
She made her silent way to the kitchens, deserted at this time of night - the tweeny didn’t get up until first light when she readied the stoves for breakfast. When she opened the kitchen door she was shocked to find she wasn’t alone. Maura was there, dressed like Zilla in tunic and trews and she was placing loaves and cold meats in a food bag. Like Zilla, Maura had a holdall over her shoulders.
Maura looked up with a guilty start but relaxed when she saw whom it was. Zilla placed a finger to her lips and with a grin took another two loaves from the table and shoved them into another food bag. Then she went to the larder and brought over some kura cheese. Maura added some ripe redfruit to both bags.
“Water?” asked Zilla.
“Over there,” Maura mouthed her answer, pointing.
“Four?”
“I had a feeling you might be joining me,” whispered Maura.
“Shush,” cautioned Zilla as the two of them picked up the bags, collected two bottles each and made for the door that led to the inn-yard.
Once they had reached the comparative safety of the stables Zilla turned to Maura.
“I saw you readying Lightfoot’s tack earlier,” Maura answered Zilla’s unspoken question. “Thought you’d be leaving tonight. I want to go too.”
“Why?”
“Joh’s gone with the Militia.” Joh was a friend of Zilla’s brother Zak and Maura had been ‘walking out’ with him for some time. “They’ll be needing nurses.”
“My thought exactly,” said Zilla, accepting Maura’s right to go. “Horse?”
“I’m taking Blunder. Oh I know he’s old and not very fast but he’ll get me there all right.” Blunder was the inn-pony, smaller than Lightfoot and used by the inn to cart necessities to and from market. He was also the pony the triplets had learned to ride on. “His saddle and bridle were in the tack-room. I cleaned them earlier.”
Zilla nodded, “let’s get them saddled up and be off.” She squirmed out of her holdall, placing it on the ground then added the food-bag on to the top.
“You get the grooming stuff and shove it in where you can,” said Maura, handing over her own bags.
“Feed?”
“Already done, we can tie them to the saddle clinches. It’ll not be enough to get us to Settlement but I’ve got some coin, enough I hope.”
“Me too. Cleaned out my purse, Rilla’s too, knew she wouldn’t mind. She left it behind when she went to Vada last year.”
It didn’t take the girls long to tack up the two ponies who were most surprised. They led them out of the stables and into the yard. Their hooves clipped on the cobbles and Zilla held her breath. Would someone hear them and come to investigate? Zilla decided not to take any chances and mounted Lightfoot at once. He was skittish but the last year had made of Zilla a competent horsewoman and she managed with little trouble. Blunder stood like a rock while Maura mounted like the well-mannered little pony he was, there was little that unsettled him.
“Let’s go,” commanded Zilla and set her heels to Lightfoot’s side. He bounded forward, his hooves clattering on the cobbles. Blunder followed, his short legs making a rapid clickety-clack noise.
As the two broke into a canter, the girls heard shouts coming from behind them but they paid no heed.
Eight days later they arrived in the woods above Settlement.
* * * * *
The Convent
The Abbess of the Mother House of the Order of Grey Nuns was sitting at her desk making her way through some much needed routine paperwork.
Mother Breguswið was not over fond of paperwork. Despite her best efforts the bundle of papers in her ‘in-tray’ appeared to get bigger every day.
The ‘Grey Nuns’, hence Mother Breguswið’s all grey habit was a teaching community, founded at the beginning of the second century by a daughter of one of the ducal houses, some years after the Thibaltine Order of Nuns had been founded. The Thibaltines were neither a teaching order nor were they a nursing order as were the white-habited Little Sisters of the Poor. The Thibaltines ran what were known as enclosed convents, devoted entirely to prayer and to the worship of God. The Little Sisters worked in the world outside their walls.
The Order of Grey Nuns devoted an equal amount of time to prayer (this included two candle-marks a day spent reading devotional books) and teaching. They ran schools within their houses for young girls up to the age of fourteen and also taught pupils of both sexes in the towns and villages.
Breguswið’s teaching days were now over; she had far too much to do running the Order which had no less than twenty-six daughter-houses and any number of secular schools. She did try to be a mother to all of her daughters in religion and to the schoolgirls sent to her convent.
Now in her late fifties, Mother Breguswið was a much loved and respected woman. She picked up the last
piece of correspondence she had to deal with this day.
It was a letter, a request from one of the girls who had left the school some three years before. Estelle, for that was her name, was visiting her younger sister (also an ex-pupil) who was expected to be getting married later in the summer at the family home, two days carriage ride distant.
Estelle, now Margravessa Brentwood had been well-liked and Mother Breguswið wrote that she would be pleased to welcome both her and her sister Isobel if they cared to pay the community a visit. She added that Sisters Cynwise and Coenberg would be pleased to see them. Before entering religion Cynwise and Coenberg had been good friends with Estelle and Isobel.
Mother Breguswið then added that she would also be happy if Estelle and Isobel’s sister-in-law Katia, Contessa Katia Cocteau wished to visit. Katia’s young sister Jill was a shining light amongst the younger schoolgirls in the convent annex.
With a gurgle of relief (despite her years Breguswið had not lost her sense of humour) she sealed this, the last item and placed it in her out-tray.
* * * * *
Elliot and Robain
“Welcome to Murdoch,” said Elliot to Robain as they stepped off the gangplank and on to the busy quayside.
A cacophony of sound hit Robain. “Where to now?” he mouthed.
“Castle,” Elliot mouthed back and indicated that James should lead the way.
They had planned this. Duke William Duchesne did not employ excise officers who boarded vessels to inspect them, as was the usual custom in Argyll. He found it more expedient to leave the visitors to Port Duchesne alone when inside the walled port area and to station guards at the exit gates to gather in the import taxes at the gates.
James had reassumed the rank of Count he had discarded during his sojourn in the northern continent and would explain their presence to the guards. He was expensively dressed in a dark green doublet with matching breeches and sported the badge of the Ducal House of Cocteau on the long cloak he held over one arm. He had become, once again, Count James Cocteau.
Elliot and Robain were dressed in nondescript clothing as befitted servants of the Cocteau House. They also displayed the Cocteau badge, this time on their homespun tunics.
Elliot did not plan to reveal his true identity until they were actually in the presence of Duke William.
James led the way, weaving through the noisy crowd towards the gate.
“Let James do the talking,” hissed Elliot as they joined the queue of people, animals and wagons waiting to be passed through. Robain had no intention of uttering a solitary word. His northern accent would draw unwanted attention.
At last it was their turn.
“What is your business in Murdoch?” demanded the gate-guard in a bored voice.
“I am Count James Cocteau,” announced James in the clear confident voice of one accustomed to being obeyed.
The Gate-guard took note of both tone and dress but would not budge. “Yes, but your business is?”
Robain watched as James bristled with assumed indignation.
“I am accustomed to being addressed as ‘My Lord’,” he chided in an ice-cold voice, “as for my business, it is with your Duke and is not your concern.”
“Security has been stepped up I see,” whispered Elliot to Robain, “that man is one of Duke William’s personal retainers.”
“How can you tell?”
“Uniform,” answered Elliot. “Only they wear that particular shade of blue.”
“So what do we do? It doesn’t look like he’s going to let us through.”
“James will deal with it.”
The retainer looked James up and down appraisingly. His eyes flicked over to where Elliot and Robain were standing.
“My apologies My Lord Count,” he said at last, “I have my orders.”
“I understand,” said James, “but I tell truth. I have urgent business with the Duke.”
The retainer came to a decision.
“You and your servants may pass through My Lord, I will, however, provide an escort for you to the Castle.”
“That is acceptable,” said James.
“If you will follow me?” the man said with a bow and indicated that James should follow him out of the gate.
“Thank you,” replied James, still in that ‘I am one who is born to be obeyed’ voice.
Elliot and James picked up the bags and followed.
Within a quarter candle-mark they were on their way to Castle Duchesne, accompanied by three dour faced guards.
“Not taking any chances are they?” whispered Robain to Elliot.
“I’m taking this as a good sign.”
“In what way?” asked a mystified Robain.
“Means Duke William is jumpy. I’m hoping that word has come about what is happening. Danal did say that Susa Julia would be sending warnings south.”
They were approaching the castle gatehouse. Robain was amazed when he saw how imposing an edifice it was, it was old, ancient, the stone weathered, it looked as if it had been there forever.
“How old is it?” he asked as they passed over the drawbridge, glancing over the wooden fence and down into the murky depths of the moat.
“It’s as old as the Citadel at Fort,” Elliot informed him, “in fact, it might be even older. The very first Duchesne built it to protect his people against the Larg. We’re very close to the Island Chain. This castle has never fallen. It stood an eight month siege during the Great Civil War.”
“I can well imagine,” observed Robain as they passed under the portcullis and entered the tunnel leading the castle proper. “What are these openings above us?” he asked pointing to a row of square, grilled openings set at equal distances and through which muted light meandered.
“This is the killing zone,” Elliot explained. “In the event of an enemy getting this far, molten oil and other nasties can be poured down, they are known as murder holes.”
“Simple but effective,” said Robain, who had read about them, “are all your castles like this?”
“The older and bigger ones, except in Cocteau. The original Castle Cocteau was raised to the ground in the fourth century and was never rebuilt. The Duke of Cocteau has a large building which he calls a castle but in my opinion it wouldn’t hold put for long. The original keep still stands. I suppose it was too difficult to pull down, I believe it is kept in good repair although I’ve never visited it personally.”
By now, the three of them had been ushered into a small chamber where they were told to wait. It was cold and inhospitable, bare of furniture expect for a hard bench set against one wall. Elliot sat down but Robain and James remained standing.
“Might be a while,” Elliot explained as he stretched out his legs and tried to get comfortable.
“So why are we here and not being taken to see the Duke?” asked Robain.
“The Duke of Cocteau, my uncle,” James answered, “and Duke William are not what you might call friends. He’ll be wondering what I’m doing here, he’ll also think it normal to leave me cooling my heels for a while before he sends one of his men to fetch me into his presence. I expected it, my uncle would do the same.”
“Strange,” commented Robain, unaccustomed to the political machinations of the Murdoch aristocracy, “and here was me thinking that you were all on the same side. Silly me.” He grinned.
James laughed, “yes and no. We all hate the Larg and the Dukes swear fealty to the King but that’s where it ends. Most Dukes hate and despise each other, especially the northerly and southerly ones.”
Elliot who had been sitting staring into space, mentally rehearsing what he was going to say to Duke William turned to Robain. “Do you want me to explain a bit more?”
“Might as well,” Robain answered. “What’s Duke William like?” he asked, sitting down beside Elliot.
“Much like any northerly Duke.”
“So what’s the difference between a northerly and a southerly one?”
“That’s a
hard one.”
“Take your time. I don’t think we’re going anywhere soon.”
“How much to you know about my country?”
“Only what I’ve been taught and that mostly about the military capabilities. Just pretend that I’m a complete ignoramus and explain in simple terms.”
“The northerly duchies have always been that bit more independent,” began Elliot. “Duchesne, Graham, Gardiner and Brentwood, I suppose North Baker too, more ‘go-ahead’ than those to the south. The land is different here, there are forests, water and the ground is rich. The farms are smaller and there is more industry. They have access to trade with the northern continent and the islands and although slavery exists, it’s not endemic. The Emancipation Movement has a lot of support in Duchesne and Graham. The further south you go, it changes.”
“Slavery?”
“Yes, especially in agriculture.”
“The other duchies?”
“Cocteau and van Buren?”
“Yes.”
“Most of their land, like Smith and South Baker is owned by the ducal families, unlike here. Large estates, plantations and vast irrigation systems. Not much industry. There are thousands of slaves working the fields. The Dukes of Cocteau and van Buren are ultra-conservative. They cling to the old ways.”
“I see, at least a little. Sahara?”
“Owned by the crown, there’s never been a duke there. It is mostly desert. That’s where the mines are.” He cocked an eye at Robain, “thinking of your sister?”
Robain was surprised at the question and his face showed it.
“Philip told me,” explained Elliot. “As soon as we get to Fort I’ll set the wheels in motion to find them. I promise.”