by Martin Vine
Hopskotch and Dobbin looked thirsty. Their faces revealed they’d not thought to pack cups of their own, opting instead for the skins favoured by most hunters.
Careful to avoid the steam, Grandpa Rand scooped another ladleful of the brew and passed it to Hopskotch alongside him. “Here, just take it from the spoon,” he said. “It’ll warm you from the inside and help you kip.”
Hopskotch took a cautious sip – the liquid was piping hot – and handed it on to Dobbin, who blew on it a few times before doing likewise. At the end of the semicircle, Bartrem declined the brew, waving it away and wrinkling his nose to show his distaste. Dobbin didn’t seem to mind, and thirstily gulped the remainder down. The ladle was to go back and forth many times before Grandpa Rand finished his story.
“Now where was I?” Grandpa Rand asked.
“Their leader!” Dobbin answered promptly. “It was a Corsair, right?”
“Very good!” beamed Grandpa Rand. “But, no.”
Dobbin frowned.
Grandpa Rand cleared his throat. “You won’t read this in any record held in the Bridgetown Library, but the leader of the besieged Tardorians was actually Duchess Jeanette, the twenty-one-year-old daughter of Duke Mannfred Alderbough of Trapspur. True, true! Well, she was one of those headstrong types.” He winked at his grandson. “A bit like your mother, eh!”
Hopskotch’s grin was part grimace. He couldn’t but wonder whether she’d be sad or angry right now, or a little bit of both.
“Jeanette of Trapspur refused to leave the city with her father; could have sailed to safety with the last Delgardian transport. But she wouldn’t go, simply wouldn’t cut and run while her people were still in danger. Caused quite a scene, so it’s told.”
Hopskotch took another slurp of tea, wiping away the warm liquid that had spilt down his chin. “Umm, but what about the battle?” he asked.
“Getting to that, getting to that,” Grandpa Rand said. “If you want to learn about the battle, you first have to learn why it was fought. See, young Jeanette was a bit of a tomboy; used to drive her father barmy mad. Anyway, she actually knew a thing about carpentry and such, much more than she did about sewing, tapestry, and all those fine arts young duchesses are s’posed to know.
“Moreover, she knew a lot of the Trapspur tradies by name; would get in their faces whenever they worked on the castle estate – asking questions, fetching tools, that kind of thing – and had done so ever since she was a nipper. That made it easy for her to rally them. And she did, too, when all hope was lost and panic was spreading like plague through the trapped city, she alone came up with a plan.”
For the first time, Bartrem looked interested in what Grandpa Rand was saying. “What did she do,” he asked, “except call for help?”
Grandpa Rand stared through the flames at Bartrem. “So you know about the Duchess then?”
“I know a little,” replied the youngster. “I know she was in love with Targonne Whitecrow, and I know her father didn’t approve.”
Dobbin looked sideways at Bartrem.
“Quite right, quite right,” agreed Grandpa Rand. “He most certainly didn’t. But if she hadn’t been, ahem, on good terms with the Corsair Primus, if she hadn’t called immediately for help, this story would have a much less agreeable ending, and I’d probably not be sitting here telling it!”
Bartrem snorted, shaking his head.
Grandpa Rand glared at him, before continuing. “So, as young Master Thanesborough pointed out, Jeanette sent a messenger to Adensee by boat to plead for assistance from one of her father’s long-time enemies, the Corsair leader Targonne Whitecrow. The empire’s last vessel had sailed; there would be no more imperial ships pulling in to the castle docks and the Duchess knew it. So she got her priorities in order: send for help – the right kind of help – then buy time.
“And that’s exactly what she did. Brought the survivors into the grounds of Trapspur Castle and put them all to work. And you know what, Syltkin?” Grandpa Rand said, increasingly animated in his storytelling. “She stripped the guts right out of the place; ordered the carpenters to tear out all the wood. Some of the most expensive pieces in all Celestia Gar were stripped, cut down and used to bolster the defences.” The old Sylt nodded sagely. “As the story goes, she began with her own sleeping chamber!”
Hopskotch smiled, imagining what the Duchess might have looked like. He pictured himself as one of her loyal subjects, defending the castle against the nightmare army at the gates.
Grandpa Rand plunged his poker back into the fire, sending a flurry of embers into the air. Pinpricks of blazing gold light swirled over the youngsters’ heads.
“So while the besieged Tardorians went about fortifying the castle,” he resumed, “the Corsair Primus began planning their rescue. Word had reached him of the city’s plight, but he understood it was not just a matter of saving the Duchess. Whitecrow knew Jeanette well enough to understand she’d never leave without the rest of her folk. But the Trapspur Peninsula was being slowly choked by the Blighted and even the Corsairs didn’t have enough ships to evacuate so many from the bay-side docks.
“There was only one way to save the refugees, and thereby his beloved. Whitecrow’s plan was to defend a corridor along the southern shore of Crabcleft Bay. Loading their ships with catapults, the Corsairs would unleash cover fire for the remnants of Tarador to travel by foot along Kettle Beach to a safe haven north of the inlet.
“Targonne sent a messenger across the water to inform the Duchess of his plan. It gave the refugees less than one day to prepare, but with the enemy at their gate, Jeanette eventually agreed it was a necessary risk. The Blighted were becoming frighteningly efficient at dismantling the castle’s improvised fortifications, and she knew it would not be long before their defences were breached.”
Grandpa Rand paused for a moment. Scooping one last ladleful from the canister, he passed it to Dobbin, before emptying the tea leaves behind his back. The animal calls were as raucous as ever but the boys appeared untroubled by them now, their minds fixated on the story. “Courage feeds courage,” was one of Grandpa Rand’s favourite sayings, and in this instance it was Duchess Jeanette’s they were gorging on.
“But how did they get past the Blighted?” Hopskotch asked, wide-eyed. “Weren’t they surrounded?”
“That part was up to the Duchess,” explained Grandpa Rand. “Under the cover of night, she led the refugees out of Trapspur Castle via a secret exit only a handful of nobles knew about. Past the docks they snuck, hidden in the shadows of the rock wall skirting Crabcleft Bay. The Duchess knew the Blighted did not move well in darkness, so—”
“Really?” interrupted Dobbin. “I thought it was daylight they couldn’t stand.”
“No, it was night that bothered them, in fact, darkness of any kind. A common mistake.”
Dobbin frowned, as if not entirely convinced.
“Taking advantage of the low tide, Lady Jeanette led the column along a narrow path through the black rocks,” Grandpa Rand continued, “more than three-hundred terrified men, women and children trailing her. To their right glistened the black waters of Crabcleft Bay. On their left, the rock wall towered above their heads, a man-made barrier put in place to protect the peninsula from stormy seas, and now the only thing between the refugees and the Blighted Army. So close were they to the enemy that the grunts and wheezing of the warriors in their sleep could be heard echoing over the ridge.
“And yet, hidden in shadow, the fleeing survivors of Tarador kept their heads down, and the souls of their feet were bare and silent upon the sand and jagged, slippery rocks. And though they had small children, and babes who yet could not walk in tow, the column marching out that morning was as quiet as the summer breeze that swept in from the ocean to meet them. By the time the column’s last foot touched the sands of Kettle Beach, morning light had broken over Crabcleft Bay. The sails of Targonne’s fleet could be seen approaching around the peninsula.
“Of course, they
were no transports but ships of war. Targonne himself commanded the seven frigates to anchor port-to-shore less than one hundred yards from the southern beach. Sails were lowered, anchors laid. Ammunition made of bog peat and black powder was loaded into the port canons and readied. Then the first wave of Blighted appeared.”
Hopskotch dared a glance into the darkness, before turning swiftly back to his grandfather. He shifted a little closer to the fire.
“BOOM!” Grandpa Rand thundered, clapping his palms. “The canons erupted with a deafening roar. Great fireballs arced through the morning air and into the Blighted Army.”
Dobbin’s eyes widened. Like Hopskotch, he inched closer to the embers.
“One broadside after another. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! But it was not enough to stop the Blighted. The Tardorians raced along the hard sand by the water’s edge, spiralling fireballs whistling over their heads. Their brave Duchess went up and down the line, urging them on – the old, the young, the wounded – for it was unthinkable for her to leave a single Sylt to the savagery of the monsters in pursuit.
“Targonne’s crews doubled their barrage, working at a frantic pace. A courageous few guided rowboats into the shallows to pick up those who could walk no further, but most were left with only their own weary legs to save them.
“The artillery had weakened the line of Blighted attacking from the peninsula. The strongest of the refugees – Jeanette’s carpenters and builders – guarded the column’s inland flank and rear, fighting those few among the enemy to make it past the artillery. They fought with hammer and with chisel, with shovel and with hatchet, the only weapons they knew how to wield. Their selfless bravery held off scores of the savages. All too slowly, the last survivors of Tarador were herded along Kettle Beach. Then they saw something that stopped them dead.”
Another screeching noise in the canopy threatened to disrupt the tale. Grandpa Rand spared it only a cursory glance. The boys ignored it altogether.
“Cutting off their escape, a fresh wave of Blighted poured out of the Dunes to the northwest and out onto the beach. Hundreds of the razor-clawed warriors ambled toward the exhausted Tardorians. Cries of terror echoed up and down the line. The Duchess looked to the distant ships for help, but she knew they would not get to them in time. Hope drained.
“A shrill cry echoed suddenly from the forward ranks of the refugees. It was a boy of eight or nine – just a wee bit younger than you lot. He was one of the Ardentii – nomads from the deserts south of Tarador. The little one broke from his group and ran directly for the monsters, jumping up and down. ‘Illia Dracsfaeyle!’ he yelled, over and over. ‘Illia Dracsfaeyle! Illia Dracsfaeyle!’
“It was in the language of the Ardentii, but all Tardorians knew the words: ‘The Dragonriders! The Dragonriders!’
“Then they saw the spears. Morning light reflected off polished steel, shimmering like white lightning over the heads of the advancing Blighted. The legendary Dragonriders – Shield of Florenmeer, Guardians of the Fens – had taken the field.
“In three lines they appeared along the north end of the beach, holding their famed water dragons in tight formation. Spiked quills bristled on the mighty lizards’ heads, talons pawed impatiently into the white sand, a chorus of high-pitched rattling erupted from their quivering throats, all puffed out and menacing beneath their massive wedge-shaped heads.
“Saddled high on their shoulders, the warriors waited in full battle array: feathered helms and scale breastplates that mimicked the natural armour of their mounts. One rider raised a horn to his lips. More than one hundred and three score spears dipped, their blades aimed directly at the monster army before them. The deafening blast echoed the length and breadth of Crabcleft Bay. For the first time since the beginning of the war, the Blighted tasted fear.”
Hopskotch felt a smile form on his lips. The hair on the back of his neck was standing straight up.
“From the rear line, a volley of arrows arced into the sky. Their duck-feather fletches whistled a high-pitched chorus through the morning air before slamming into the enemy. Scores of Blighted were felled, shrieking in agony. Then the Dragonriders charged.
“Raising themselves up on hind legs, the water dragons closed the distance in seconds. With shield and spear and dragon claw, their front line tore into the Blighted ranks, cutting through them like a reaper’s scythe.
“Armoured and battle-hardened, the Flormeerian warriors fought the Blighted all the way back to the dunes. The beach piled high with the twisted bodies of the fallen, turning the sand blood red. But outright victory eluded them.
“Though ignorant of the finer arts of war, the Blighted made up for it in numbers. Even as they fell before the spears of Florenmeer, countless more flooded out from the dunes. Many a brave Dragonrider fell, dragged from their mounts by the ferocity of the Blighted, who never attacked ’less in overwhelming numbers.
“But even as the cavalry were pushed back, their line did not break. An impenetrable wall of steel and dragon scale shielded Duchess Jeanette’s refugees from the nightmare army salivating to get at them. By the time the Corsair frigates had repositioned for a fresh salvo, the last of the Tardorians had crossed the northern inlet, fleeing to shelter amongst the hills of eastern Braythorn.
“Now it was Targonne’s turn for a second assault. His canon reloaded and ready, the fire rained again from the sky, this time finding the Blighted forces closing in on the struggling Dragonriders. Hillock after hillock, the dune grass burst into flame. As if summoned by Aethelron himself, a fierce wind blew in from the north, fanning the fire till a wall of smoke some fifty yards high angled off the beach. The Blighted Army was burning.”
Grandpa Rand poked his stick into the fire once again, staring at the embers as they crackled and spat. His eyes misted over.
“More than one hundred Dragonriders lay cold in the sand. Tarador was in ashes, never to be recovered. The empire was numb with shock, but the war was over. On that lonely stretch of beach, far from the pomp and majesty of Sanufell, the Blighted were soundly defeated, their pitiful survivors forced to retreat all the way back to the desert lands whence they’d sprung.
“Not one of those shambling monsters laid a single claw upon the women and children under the Duchess’s protection. Along with the brave Tardorian tradesmen, the independent tribes of Florenmeer and Adensee had seen to that.”
Grandpa Rand sniffed a little. He inhaled deeply.
“A brave Duchess disowned by her father had led her people to safety. An army of the empire’s outcasts had fought, bled and died for the citizens House Delgard had abandoned. Nothing was ever the same again.”
Hopskotch noticed Grandpa Rand’s shoulders slump, and it seemed as if the sadness of the tale had genuinely wounded him. The sounds of the forest echoed loudly all about, and for the first time he detected the smell of something rancid drifting across the valley from somewhere uphill. Alongside him, Bartrem began to argue ancient history with a Sylt more than six times his age.
Hopskotch heard not a word of it. It barely registered that his grandfather had actually finished the tale, or that something rotten was beginning to overpower the pungent smoke smell of the campfire. In Hopskotch’s head, spears still glistened in the morning light over Crabcleft Bay: dragons fought with monsters; a beautiful duchess stood in defence of those unable to defend themselves, and Corsair captains turned their tall ships into fireball-hurling weapons of war.
As his eyelids grew heavier, Hopskotch drifted into a time and place in ancient history. But the last face he saw before sleep took him was no dashing duchess, nor Corsair Primus. It was neither his best friend, grandfather, nor the charming tramp who had rescued them from the smokehouse earlier in the day.
The last face Hopskotch’s mind conjured before sleep took him was the old Sylt from upper Ravens Sweep. The man he’d never seen before. The man who’d claimed to know him.
No Rest
An intense feeling of claustrophobia threatened to overwhelm Lisal
le at the very moment he closed the book. Its words had taken such a hold on him that small matters such as properly drawing air had been overlooked. He inhaled deeply, and it took several gulping breaths before his head stopped spinning.
Reaching for his pocket watch, he brought the glass close to his face. Ten minutes past four, it read. Too early to be awake; too late to go to sleep. Lisalle released a fresh sigh. Perhaps not the time to be reading such as this.
Removing his glasses, Lisalle rubbed at his eyes. The candle on his desk had burned down to the last inch. Beyond its sphere, all was bathed in darkness. It was barely an hour ago he’d finally risen from his sleeping pouch. He thought about the name for it and laughed to himself.
False advertising.
The entire night had been one of restlessness. For long hours had he lain staring up at the roof of his cramped bedchamber, then the window, then the far wall, anything to blank his mind. It was possible he even drifted off for a spell here or there.
But deep sleep had eluded him.
Lisalle had always suffered the insomnia of overthinking, and his excursion to Birchbarrow Park had only added to the tornado inside his skull. The mystery behind the pitiful state of the birch trees had quickly evolved into an obsession. It was easier that way, easier to focus on just the one thing. It served to block out the memories he wasn’t ready to deal with: past wrongs, lost friends. Regrets.
The trees that were so important to the festival.
So important to me!
The realisation surprised Lisalle, but he felt curiously better for it. Loosening his muscles, he closed his eyes and retreated into darkness till the knots in his muscles began to loosen.
When he opened his eyes again, Lisalle noticed the candle was beginning to splutter. A pool of molten wax had collected inside the metal saucer. The dying flame trapped his eyes and held them. His mind began to slow, emptying itself of the worries and fears that had so tormented him through the night.