Battle for Elt: The Taking of the Wizard Bearer Read online

“Yes,” Bahlinger said. “I mean, no. We shall consolidate our soldiers. Mayhap your father, Lord Holster of Everthorpe, could come to our aid?”

  The king knew this would silence his queen. Rose had a sour look on her face, her lips pulled tight. Your father hasn't pulled his weight enough in this war and you know it, my dear. “Perhaps I'll send a bird and demand his immediate loyalty.”

  “If you want my father to come and rescue you, then I'm sure that's what he'll do,” Rose said. “He always said you were an incompetent fool.”

  Before Bahlinger could reply to Rose's jibe, the Grand Master interrupted. “So, what happens if our brave Dark Rider fails to rescue the wizard bearer?” Gaillart said, smugly. “After all, he and the others could already be dead, hanging from a tree somewhere, swaying in the winter breeze.”

  The thought made Bahlinger sick to the stomach.

  “Stetland will send a bird when he reaches High Hunsley,” Bahlinger said.

  “So, if we haven't heard anything, say, by the morn, what is the plan?”

  Bahlinger shifted in his seat. He knew where this was going and he didn't like it one bit.

  “Then we will have little choice but to send everything we've got,” Rose said. “How many men can we muster, Gaillart?”

  The Grand Master rubbed his beard. “I can gather around a thousand men. Not all of them fully trained, but I can provide three knights to lead them.”

  “It will leave us vulnerable, though?” Rose said, raising one eyebrow.

  “Indeed it will, but the war is far off, ma'am. And if your father can provide men, then we could have our home guard reinforced within days.”

  “Well, I guess we have little choice.” Rose shot Bahlinger a deadly stare. “We shall hold fresh counsel in the morning. Let's hope we receive good news before then.”

  “I have a feeling Cassandra's parents will be paying you a visit very soon,” Lambert said, nodding towards the king and queen. “It might be an idea to have a plausible story ready to tell. I doubt they will take kindly to the news that you sent the Dark Rider to rescue their daughter.”

  “Those damn fools can stay out of my way,” Bahlinger said. And fools they were, he knew. Walter Delamare was a pompous lord with as much sense as a half-dead horse. And his wife, Grace, the former wizard bearer, was a bitter old witch who still mourned the loss of her youth.

  “There's another matter we need to discuss,” Rose said. “Exactly how were our walls breached?”

  “The archers on the walls were killed,” Gaillart Gregory said. “Their throats slit. And both the city gates and the castle gates were open.”

  “The timing of the breach coincided with the changing of the guard,” Lambert Germain said. “Quite convenient, don't you think?”

  “So they had someone on the inside?” Rose said.

  “Impossible,” Herman Lewis said.

  “I wouldn't be so hasty with your opinion, Herman,” Bahlinger said. “Our intruders knew the exact location of the wizard bearer's chambers.”

  “Hardly a big secret,” Gaillart said. “The servants know the lay of her chambers.”

  “Then a careless word to the wrong ear it might have been,” Bahlinger said. “But we can't rule out that someone might have paid for information that our servants were only too willing to give.”

  “What do we know of the servants who work in Cassandra's chambers?” Rose said. “Do they know about the secret passageways in the walls?”

  Bahlinger thought of the servant girl with the fiery red hair. I really must ask her her name.

  “We should question them all,” Gaillart said.

  “I'm not entirely sure it was a servant,” Lambert Germain said.

  “What do you mean?” Bahlinger said.

  “According to the guards on duty last night, the torches in the yard had been extinguished prior to the breach.”

  Bahlinger scratched at the roots of his beard, thoughtfully. He didn't like this at all. Exactly who can I trust? Even the men sitting around this table have their reasons to betray me – if the price was right, of course.

  “We shall interview all staff on duty last night,” Bahlinger said. “And I want you all to keep your eyes and ears open. Lambert, you have many friends. Ask around, see what you can find out. If there's a rat, I want you to flush it out, and quickly.”

  Lambert nodded. “We also need to make an announcement. The people need to know what's happened. There are many rumours flying around. Some are even suggesting it was Princess Everlyn who was taken.”

  “Herman,” Bahlinger said, “see to it that an announcement is made. Not too many details. And make it clear that we plan to have the wizard bearer back in our possession by tomorrow at the latest.”

  “Yes, Sire,” Herman said. “Also, may I suggest that the morrow's wedding celebrations go ahead as planned?”

  “Are you out of your mind?” Bahlinger said, aghast.

  “I believe we need to keep up the pretence that everything is fine and that the wizard bearer is on her way home. Our people need something to raise their spirits.”

  “He might have a point,” Rose said.

  Bahlinger considered it for a moment. A celebration. It might work to the realm's advantage. It would show that we fully expect the wizard bearer to be returned and that Volk poses no threat to us at all.

  “All right,” Bahlinger said. “The celebrations will go ahead, as planned. Put that in your announcement, Herman. And make it clear that we are celebrating her return and the defeat of Volk's little plan.”

  “Yes, Sire. I'll see to it right away.”

  “Are we done here?” Bahlinger said, hoping they were.

  Gaillart held up his hands. “I'm done.”

  “Me too,” Lambert said. “I might have a little snooze. Needless to say I didn't get much sleep last night.”

  “Shall we meet again in the morn, then?” Gaillart said. “I'll prepare my men. Something tells me we'll be needing them.” He smiled slyly at the king. Bahlinger clenched his fists, hoping Stetland would come through so that he could watch that smile slide from the Grand Master's face like a sloppy piece of shit.

  “Don't you ever keep secrets from me again,” Rose snapped when the hall was empty. “You made us both look like fools.”

  “Dear,” Bahlinger said, “I didn't want to trouble you.” He let his voice ooze with sarcasm.

  “You didn't want to admit that you'd mismanaged our forces, more like.”

  You should try keeping stock of one hundred thousand men fighting on many different fronts, my dear, Bahlinger thought. It's a little harder than organising the kitchen staff.

  “Everything will be fine. Stetland will rescue the wizard bearer.”

  “You had better hope so.”

  “And can you please stop lusting after the servant girls. It's embarrassing and degrading.”

  “Lusting after? I never look twice at any of them,” Bahlinger said, feeling his cheeks burning red.

  “I saw you. The one with the copper hair is obviously your favourite.”

  “It's just your imagination, my dear.”

  “You haven't been to my bed in an age, yet you look at that girl like a starving wolf would a lost sheep.” Bahlinger kept quiet, hoping his wife would finish her twisted little rant and leave the room so that he could finish his wine in the peace and tranquillity he was accustomed to. “Is it so long since I looked like that? Have your eyes not aged with mine? Do you think those fertile little whores will give you a son? Is that it? You've always held that against me.”

  Bahlinger rolled his eyes. “I'm the only king, in a very long line of kings, who will not leave their kingdom to a son. But that's just the way it is.” He was bitter about it and that came through in the tone of his words. Rose had had difficulty carrying children. She'd lost four before their daughter Everlyn was born and had lost three since, the last had nearly taken her life too.

  “Everlyn will make a great queen someday,” Rose said. “Perha
ps better than any king that ever was. She's selfless with a wisdom far beyond her years.”

  He was proud of their dear daughter Everlyn. But a future king she's not.

  When Bahlinger remained quiet, Rose stood. “I'm retiring to my bedchamber. Will you accompany me?”

  With the servant girl's young and pert body on his mind, he had no desire for his wizened wife and her empty breasts. “I have my wine to drink,” he said. “And a lot on my mind. Go ahead and have a sleep. By the looks of you, you need it.”

  Rose turned with a frustrated huff, her skirts swirling around her, and marched from the hall.

  CHAPTER 5

  They rode fast, charging through the bare, winter slumber of Kettlethorpe Woods. Ancient trees, their branches twisted and meandering skyward, were silent witnesses to Kingstown's five-strong band of men. Stetland Rouger led, his horse's breath misting the air in front.

  As they rounded a corner, a sight Stetland had feared greeted him.

  “My God,” Marcus murmured as they came to a halt. The young soldier’s face was strong and masculine, Stetland observed, and he had a thick mat of blonde hair on his head.

  “Strung up like animals,” Gabel echoed. Gabel’s features were softer than the other soldier's, almost boyish, and his hair was brown.

  Stetland looked around, through the trees and into the gloom, and then back to the two bodies gently swaying in a gruesome dance by the rope around each of their necks.

  “A trap?” Gladden said.

  “No,” Stetland said. “I doubt they lingered. Time is too precious.”

  “Let's cut them down,” Sir John said. “We'll burn their bodies, it's the least we can do.”

  These soldiers were hardly old enough to shave, Stetland thought as the bodies swayed in the cold breeze. There were multiple bloodied tears in the soldier’s green tunics. Someone wanted to be sure they were dead. He reached into his saddle bag and found the wooden handle of his knife. Still in the saddle, he reached up and cut the ropes below the knots that secured them to the overhanging branch. The bodies fell to the floor, limp and undignified.

  Between them, they placed the bodies side-by-side and doused them with oil from Stetland's saddle bag.

  The Dark Rider said a prayer: “May those who die in the name of the realm be honoured beyond the grave.”

  “Such a waste of life,” said the young wizard Gladden.

  After a moment for quiet prayer, the five set off again.

  As Kettlethorpe Woods gave way to sparser fields of arable farmland, Stetland experienced again the voice that had haunted his waking mind and invaded the private world of his sleep for the past few weeks. A blinding headache accompanied it.

  Then, to the right of the path, a familiar sight: a cottage, nondescript, but Stetland felt as if he knew it. A plume of smoke rose from its single chimney, dissipating as it merged with the clouds above. As the wind blew its penetrating chill, the cottage looked every a bit an inviting humble abode. Stetland pulled on his horse's reins and brought his mount to a halt. The others passed and then stopped too, turning their horses.

  “Why have we stopped?” Sir John asked. “We must keep moving.”

  “Looks like snow, too” Gladden said, looking to the sky. “We have Drewton Hills to contend with; a bad place to be in the snow.”

  “I won't be a moment,” Stetland said, kicking his heels into his horse, sending the animal trotting up the path towards the cottage.

  “Stetland?” Sir John said, loud and with a hint of aggression.

  I know this place, Stetland thought.

  On reaching the cottage, Stetland dismounted. He heard the clip-clop of hooves behind him and knew the others were following. Without hesitation, he rapped on the wooden door and waited.

  There was no answer.

  “Stetland?” Sir John persisted. “What is the meaning of this? We must press on.”

  Stetland ignored the head guard and instead went to the window to the right of the door. He cupped his hands against the glass and looked through them, but it was too dark inside the cottage to see anything but shadows.

  He returned to the door with Sir John still protesting. With his fist clenched, Stetland rapped on the door again, only this time louder.

  “Hello?” he shouted. “Soldiers of the realm, open up.”

  Stetland was about to turn away when the door opened a little. The occupant peered through the slither of dark between the door and doorframe.

  “What do you want?” came a gruff voice.

  “We are soldiers of the realm. We need to ask you a few questions.” The door opened further, revealing a large men with a bloodied white shirt. “Have I interrupted something, sir?”

  “I've just slaughtered an animal,” the man said. “Nasty job, but someone has to do it. You town-folk won't know about that.”

  Stetland nodded, but he suspected there was something not quite right about this man.

  “Have you seen anyone pass by on the road today? Mayhap a horse pulling a wain?”

  There was a pause, long enough to convince Stetland that the man was lying. “No. The road's been quiet all week. Always is this time of year. Now, if you don't mind, I have business to attend to.” The man made to close the door, but Stetland put his foot in the way.

  “Stetland,” Sir John said. “Have you lost your senses? Let the man close the door.”

  Ignoring the head guard, Stetland said: “Do you live alone, sir?”

  Another pause. “Yes.”

  “You wouldn't happen to have seen a boy?”

  “Stetland, what are talking about?” Sir John said. He had dismounted and was standing by Stetland's side.

  “I've told you,” the large man said. “I've seen no one. I live alone. Now, please remove your foot from my door, I have things to attend to. Unless, of course, you want me to make an official complaint to the king. You look like a high-ranking guard, sir.” He nodded at Sir John. “A knight mayhap?”

  “I am indeed. And the head of the king's guard.”

  “Then do something about your man here.”

  Stetland was then struck by another painful headache. A voice in his head, as clear as any spoken aloud, said: I'm inside. Come and get me. Please, come and get me. It was the voice from his dreams. The same voice that always accompanied his headaches too. It was the voice of a boy.

  “Let me inside,” Stetland demanded.

  The large man looked like he had been slapped in the face by the flat side of a shovel. “I don't think so,” he scoffed.

  Sir John put his hand on Stetland's chest, attempting to lead him away. Stetland shrugged him off.

  “Let me in, sir,” Stetland persisted. His mind was set. There was no way he was leaving without the boy.

  “No.” The large man banged the door repeatedly against Stetland's imposing foot.

  Stetland pushed his shoulder into the door, forcing it open. He shoved the large man in the chest, sending him stumbling backwards. The inside of the cottage was gloomy. It took a moment for Stetland's eyes to adjust, but when they did he saw the boy lying face down on the floor. He ran to him.

  Behind Stetland, the large man was shouting: “Are you going to let him get away with this? This is against the law. I'll have all your heads for this.”

  There was blood seeping through the child's thin, tattered shirt, Stetland saw. “What have you done to him?”

  “That's none of your business,” the large man said. This only fuelled Stetland's anger.

  “I thought you said you lived alone,” Sir John said.

  “He's a thief,” said the large man. “I caught him rustling my sheep. I'm doing the realm a service. Damn youths, they're all the same. No respect.”

  “I'm taking him.” Stetland rolled the boy onto his back and then cradled him in his arms.

  “He's mine,” the large man insisted. His voice had become even louder.

  “You'll answer for this,” Stetland said, carrying the boy to the door.
/>   Once in the daylight, the extent of the boy's injuries became apparent; along with red lash marks on his skin, two purple lumps protruded from his forehead, like balls sewn under the skin. His nose had been bleeding too, Stetland noticed, for there was blood crusted below one nostril.

  “Let me take a look at him,” Gladden said.

  “You say he's a thief?” Sir John said to the large man.

  “Yes. He should lose his hands.”

  This boy is no thief, Stetland thought. He's a slave. And if it were not for his gift I would never have found him. “Gabel, grab a blanket from my saddle bag.” The boy began to mumble. “What did you say?” Stetland turned his head and lowered his ear to the boy's mouth. The boy tried to talk again, but his murmurings made no sense. Stetland laid the boy on the ground. “Speak to me in my head.”

  The boy closed his eyes. Stetland felt an instant headache, like he'd been struck in the head with an iron bar. Then came the voice, so crystal clear it was as if the boy were speaking directly into his ear: The man's name is Tarquin. He has a wife. Save her, please.

  Where is she? Stetland replied, like he was answering his own thoughts.

  In the room where you found me. Beyond the kitchen table.

  Stetland returned to the cottage. He walked past the table and spied a shape lying in the gloom. It's her. He knelt beside the women. She had been beaten badly, he saw.

  “You need to get out of my house,” Tarquin insisted. He was standing over Stetland, his face angry and red.

  Stetland stood, matching the man's height. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn't cut you down where you stand?”

  “How I discipline my wife is my business.”

  “How I discipline you is my business.”

  “Leave him, Stetland. We haven't got time for this. Tie him up and we'll send a bird back to Kingstown when we reach High Hunsley. Guards will arrive by the morn to arrest him, on my orders. He'll pay for what he's done here.”

  “What about the woman?” Gladden said. “I should take a look at her too.”

  “Her breathing is shallow,” Stetland said. “We can't leave her. She'll be dead by dawn.”

  Stetland knelt, slipped his arms underneath the woman's neck and legs, and lifted her.