by John Marco
‘Here, let me take the child so you can dismount,’ said Glane. He held his hands up and his earnest face showed no malice. Lorn quickly decided it was safe and handed Poppy to the man, who took the infant and turned his back. Lorn slipped down from his horse and followed Glane to where the two other knights were arranging their things in a ring. One of the pair scanned the area for kindling, sighting a patch of shrubs sprouting from the rocks. By the moon’s dappled light he moved carefully across the road toward the distant sticks. His comrade began unpacking his saddlebag, rummaging through it for the little food he had and some flint. Glane watched him absently, holding Poppy. Lorn tapped his shoulder, insisting he return the child. The knight made a sour face.
‘We’re not going to rob you,’ he muttered, handing Lorn the child. ‘Sit and rest, and take that damn helmet off.’
Glane turned back toward his man as the other knight knelt in the dirt, clearing away rocks for their fire. Lorn took a few paces out of the road, set Poppy down in her swaddling clothes, then drew his sword without a sound. Before him stood the oblivious Glane, his back turned as he watched his comrade shuffle rocks and brush away dust. As soon as he was in range, Lorn made his move. He did not hesitate for a second as he whistled his sword through the air, decapitating Glane instantly. Glane’s head flew from his body, as the body wavered and dropped. Blood fountained up from its neck, spraying the kneeling knight, who looked up in confusion to see Lorn’s sword coming down. The blade crashed into his forehead, splitting it easily, opening the throat in mid-scream. On the side of the road Poppy began to cry. Lorn hurriedly removed his helmet, tossing it aside. As he waited for the third knight to return, he pulled the fabric from his mouth, cloth he had soaked with Jarrin’s blood. In a few moments the remaining Rolgan appeared, cradling the dry sticks he had gathered. He was well upon the camp before he noticed what had happened, the two dead bodies slumped in the darkness, the imperious figure standing over them. Incredulous, the man dropped his bundle and stared at Lorn.
‘Great Fate …’
‘I am King Lorn of Norvor,’ said Lorn. He stalked a step closer to the knight, sword in hand. ‘And you are the servant of a traitor.’
His stupor broken, the knight raised his defence at once, going for his sword and springing forward. Lorn hadn’t expected his speed but dodged the attack easily, sprinting aside and bringing his own blade around. The weapon caught the knight in the back, sending him sprawling. Lorn was on him in an instant, slamming his booted foot into the knight’s back before he could rise. The man let out a cry. Again he tried to regain his footing, and again Lorn kicked him mercilessly, driving his boot into his midsection with a howl. The sword sprawled from the knight’s grip. Desperately he clawed the ground to escape. Lorn prowled after him.
‘How quick you were to bring my child to the bitch-queen,’ he hissed. ‘My daughter!’
He punctuated daughter with another savage kick, this one hard enough to roll the knight over. The man looked up through the darkness, breathing hard and bringing up his hands to plea.
‘Enough!’ he shouted. ‘I had nothing to do with it! I swear, I was just following orders.’
Lorn put the point of his blade to the man’s gorget. ‘I have no interest in your orders, dog. And I have no mercy.’
He pushed the point of his sword through the gorget, puncturing the knight’s throat and running through to the other side. Pinned there, the man gave a gurgling convulsion, his legs kicking wildly as his life fled away. Lorn watched dispassionately, then pulled free his sword. The knight’s eyes bulged horribly. His hands went to his neck. He tried to rise but failed. A minute later, he was dead.
Lorn sheathed his sword. He went to the side of the road where he’d left his daughter, lifting her and bringing her to the little circle of rocks that had been made. There he found the flint, struck it once to test it, then gathered the sticks the man he’d just killed had dropped. It took some time to make the fire, but within several minutes he had it going. He made sure Poppy was close enough to feel its warmth. She would need food, and very soon. But right now he desperately needed to rest, just for a little while.
King Lorn the Wicked looked up into the sky of Norvor, the country he had tried to rule for years. The clouds were clearing and he could see stars. The heavens seemed to fall on him.
‘Poppy, we have so far to go,’ he murmured, though he was sure the girl could not hear him.
They weren’t safe yet. They wouldn’t be until they were out of Norvor, away from Jazana Carr. But at least he had saved his daughter, and for that he was glad.
Duke Rihards, content in King Lorn’s death, slept soundly in the camp of his army. He had returned to his own pavilion guarded by a slew of his personal knights of Rolga, and awoke refreshed and prepared for battle. He was sure that Castle Carlion would fall easily, and now that the king’s daughter had been safely spirited to Jazana Carr he could give the order. He did so at dawn without hesitation.
All at once his army began to move, awakening like a leviathan from the foothills. Cavalry took to their horses and readied to charge, lancers and infantry got in formation, beasts of burden wheeled war machines forward, archers stuffed their quivers and stretched their bow hands, the battering ram squeaked to life on its oiled wheels, and the mismatched army of mercenaries moved out, all under the command of Duke Rihards. They had come from all corners of Norvor to join Jazana Carr’s crusade, the love of gold and diamonds making them loyal. Duke Rihards himself had dressed for the occasion. Like his heralds and standard bearer, he wore the traditional armour of a Rolgan warrior, green and gold armour with the helmet of a wolf, the same symbol emblazoned on their flag. As the duke rode out under his standard, he could sense the ease of the battle at hand. Jarrin had put the garrison’s strength at barely two hundred. A decent number, to be sure, and they had Carlion’s high walls to protect them. But fall they would under greater numbers, and might even surrender now that their king was gone.
A few hundred yards from the castle, Rihards stopped. He had come to a small swell in the land from which he could easily see the battlefield, and so decided to command from this spot. His many lieutenants and aides guarded him, some dismounting, others passing along the order to surround Carlion. The army moved slowly into position, fanning out and gradually flanking the fortress. The sky was clear by Norvan standards, the air crisp and cool. Rihards talked among his aides, casually assessing the situation. First, he would give the loyalists a chance to surrender. With their king dead, they might welcome a chance to join Jazana Carr’s new regime. If that failed, he decided, they would swarm the castle, eventually bringing up the ram to splinter Carlion’s stout gate.
The order was given, and Rihards’ aides went to work, relaying orders like the polished professionals they were. In less than an hour all his troops were in position. The heralds rode out with the duke’s terms, terms that Rihards felt were exceedingly generous. It surprised him when they were summarily refused.
‘Then they will die,’ said Rihards. He sighed, unhappy he would have to spend so much blood and treasure on Carlion. He turned to his aide Lord Gondoir, a close confidant like Glane and Fredris. ‘Bring it down, Gondoir,’ he said. ‘By the end of the day I want to be inside, drinking Lorn’s wines.’
Duke Rihards got his wish. By noon the exhausted defenders had given Carlion their best and were too weak to resist the battering ram or the army of mercenaries that swarmed in to slay them. Upon the fall of the gate Rihards declared that the booty of the castle was to be collected, though there was little of it left in Carlion. Whatever spoils they could find would be evenly distributed. He had one strict rule, though — the king’s own quarters were not to be disturbed. Everything else could be taken or destroyed, but nothing in Lorn’s rooms was to be touched.
Remarkably, his order was obeyed, and by early evening Rihards himself was able to enter the fortress. He trotted in like a hero, entering a courtyard blackened with smoke and lined with pri
soners, the ground littered with dead defenders. His aide Gondoir was with him as they entered. A mercenary sergeant and his men had quartered off a section of the yard for prisoners, stripping them of all their weapons. Some were in chains, others milled about aimlessly under the threat of Rolgan arrows. As the prisoners watched the duke enter their keep, their eyes betrayed their misery. And because the duke wasn’t known for his mercy, they rightfully feared their fates. As he rode past them — about a hundred men, he supposed — he wondered if he should execute them or wait for Jazana Carr. The women, he knew, would have to be spared. Jazana Carr did not tolerate rape.
‘Gondoir, see to these fires,’ ordered Rihards. ‘And get a detail together to gather the bodies. The stench is overwhelming.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ replied his aide, who then rode off with a group of knights.
Rihards continued into the yard, stopping at last when he came to the keep and handed off his mount to one of his men. At once he recognised Colonel Fredris, who had commanded the assault. The colonel looked grave as he approached, bowing to the duke.
‘My lord, the castle is secured. We’ve taken prisoners, as you’ve seen. I’ve already sent a company into the city to tell them what’s happened, and that you’re in command now.’
‘That’s all very good news, Colonel,’ said Rihards. ‘So why the long face?’
Colonel Fredris was hesitant. ‘My lord, we’ve secured King Lorn’s private chambers as well. Nothing was disturbed, but we’ve found something. I think you should see for yourself.’
Fredris was a cautious man, so Rihards didn’t push him further. He ordered the colonel to escort him to Lorn’s chambers, though he knew the way well. The lack of emotion on Fredris’ face alarmed the duke at once; he had expected Fredris to be overjoyed at the ease of their victory. Together they made their way through Lorn’s home, now a shadow of its glory days. Lorn had long ago sold off the tapestries and other artwork in an effort to pay for the war. His many campaigns against Jazana had bankrupted him and his elaborate home. But Rihards knew of one prize Lorn would have never parted with, and as he made his way to the king’s former chambers he hoped they had not been ransacked and that the ring was still safe. A handful of his fellow Rolgans bowed to the duke as he passed them, knights who were rounding up the last of the women and children, all of whom looked at Rihards scornfully. When at last they reached the wing where King Lorn had lived and slept and plotted his many schemes, Rihards paused. There were two knights at the wide wooden door, which was closed. They had lit the torches in the hall. Smokey sunlight poured through the windows carved into the bare stone walls.
‘So?’ Rihards asked his colonel. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘I posted guards because I didn’t want anyone else to see what was found,’ Fredris explained. ‘My lord, I think you should prepare yourself.’
Rihards was too anxious to wait for more information. He went to the door immediately and pushed it open, entering the familiar chamber. Like the hallway, the room was well lit. The duke’s eyes went immediately to the toppled table and giant bloodstain, which had dried and curdled.
‘Lords of hell …’ Astonished, he drifted deeper into the room. ‘What happened here?’
‘A struggle,’ Fredris surmised. The soldier followed his master toward the grisly scene. ‘This isn’t all, my lord. There’s something in the dressing chamber you should see.’
Rihards knew exactly where the dressing chamber was, and made a quick beeline there. What he saw on the floor shocked and sickened him.
‘Fate above. . Is that Lorn?’
The decapitated, naked body lay prone on the floor, its flesh a ghastly white from being drained of blood.
‘I don’t know who it is, my lord,’ said Fredris. ‘It could be Lorn. But why would Jarrin do that to him?’
‘Why indeed?’ puzzled Rihards. He leaned over the body. Thankfully, he’d never seen Lorn naked, but the flesh looked too young to be his, even in its rigored condition. He knew King Lorn the Wicked too well to not guess what had happened.
‘Fredris, wait outside for me.’
‘Duke Rihards?’
‘Go!’
Fredris did so at once, leaving Rihards in the gory dressing chamber. The duke closed his eyes, seething at having been deceived. Jarrin hadn’t killed Lorn, and he hadn’t stolen his daughter either. He cursed himself for being so stupid.
‘I underestimated you, my friend,’ he muttered. ‘You have more lives than a magic cat.’
He straightened. Sure that he’d been expertly deceived, he nevertheless went from the dressing chamber to the bedchamber, where he knew Lorn kept his most valued possession hidden, his ring of kingship. To his unpleasant surprise, he saw the chest waiting for him on the chamber’s floor, not three paces from the threshold. It wasn’t hidden. It had been left for him to find. Rihards knew it wouldn’t be locked. He hesitated for a moment, guessing at the chest’s contents and dreading it. Then, his resolve cresting, he went to the iron box and threw its latches. Angrily, he tossed open its lid. Jarrin’s severed head stared back at him, jeering.
Rihards leaned back on his haunches. Jarrin’s eyes were open wide, as was his mouth. A nail had been driven through his forehead, a square of paper thrust onto it.
‘You sick maniac,’ Rihards whispered. Not surprisingly, the ring was gone. But the square of paper beckoned him. He looked closer and read what it said, boldly written in Lorn’s unmistakable handwriting:
Rihards- The mouth has what you want.
‘The mouth?’ The idea disgusted Rihards. Jarrin’s mouth was slightly open, coated with dried blood from the extraction of his tongue. Had Lorn actually left the ring inside it? He doubted it, sure that another nasty surprise awaited him. But Lorn’s note had gotten the best of him, and he simply could not leave it. Carefully he pried open the slack jaw, peering inside. At once he saw the stump of the severed tongue, but little else. Cursing the darkness, he reached further into the cavity — and felt a stabbing pain.
‘Mother whore!’
He jerked back his hand. Sticking deeply from between two fingers was a pin.
‘Oh, heaven,’ he groaned. Staring dumbly at the pin, the enormity of his mistake struck him. Already his hand was growing numb. ‘Oh, no, no …’
Duke Rihards looked around, desperately stumbling to his feet. He saw the doorway and went through it, almost tripping over Jarrin’s corpse as he raced for help.
‘Fredris!’
The door to the main chamber flew open and Fredris and his knights entered. When they saw their duke clutching his outstretched hand they stared in confusion.
‘My lord, what is it?’ asked Fredris. The colonel hurried closer, but Rihards could barely see him.
‘I am poisoned!’ he shrieked. His vision quickly blurred. The ice in his hand raced up his arm. ‘I can’t breathe, Fredris. . help me!’
Horrified, Fredris and his fellows watched as Rihards crumpled to his knees, gasping. Rihards felt the noose of poison strangling him, closing off his windpipe with burning pain. Blindness overtook him just before his eyes rolled into his head. He could barely hear his own screams as his body toppled and shook with convulsions.
Oddly, his mind’s eye pictured Lorn quite clearly as he died, flashing on a fond memory. They were in a field, riding together. It was many peaceful years ago, before Jazana Carr threatened them. Back when they were friends.
2
The Diamond Queen
The hills of Harn lay in the south of Norvor, north of Carlion but many days’ ride from the Bleak Territories and Hanging Man, the fortress of Jazana Carr. Because the hills were so desolate, they reminded the Diamond Queen of home. Jazana Carr missed home. She missed the many comforts of her fortress on the river and the familiar landscape which greeted her each morning, the sun rising over her empire while her many servants cooked the morning meal. Because she was so wealthy she was able to indulge her every pleasure, except when she was on the road. Today, i
t was unseasonable in Harn. Outside her grand pavilion late summer winds howled through the canyons, clawing at her army of mercenaries as they huddled around campfires. Jazana Carr herself was spared the wind. The sweet water of her bath was exquisitely warm. Naked, she leaned back in the copper tub and closed her eyes, letting a servant massage her neck and shoulders. The music of a lute serenaded her as another servant plied his instrument, relaxing his mistress with a soft lullaby. Silk and brightly coloured pillows decorated the floor, strewn across the expensive Ganjeese carpets. Jazana Carr and her army had been camped in Harn for many days and her nerves were frazzled from the tedium. Her generals had brought her good news, yet still she fretted. She was queen now, and wasn’t sure exactly what that meant. After years of battling Lorn, it seemed impossible that her struggle was over. Yet that was the word out of Carlion — the city had fallen. Like Vicvar and Poolv.
Norvor is mine. She considered this as her man massaged oil into her neck muscles. Now what do I do with it?
Victory had come to her as a stranger, and she did not recognise it. There were still marauders and a handful of warlords to deal with, any one of whom might challenge her. And Lorn was still alive, probably. Somehow, the tyrant had escaped her. His disappearance vexed Jazana Carr. She wasn’t at all bothered by Duke Rihards’ death. He was a traitor, like all men, and she had never liked him. But he had foolishly allowed Lorn to escape, and because of that blunder Jazana Carr could find no peace.