Battle for Elt: The Taking of the Wizard Bearer Page 6

  “He doesn't threaten us. It's his power we want. He can be one of us. Keepers of the night. Holders of darkness. Guardians of the underworld.”

  “We are on an important mission on behalf of the king.”

  “We know why you're here. She's gone, out of your reach. You've failed her and your king.”

  “You're lying.”

  “They are lying,” Christian spoke up. He sounded like he was on the edge of tears. He was frightened, Stetland realised. “They are about to reach High Hunsley. We must hurry.”

  “I beg of you,” Stetland said. “Let us pass. If the wizard bearer escapes us, the world will fall to Volk.”

  The monk turned his head in the direction of the boy. “We will show you how to use your power for the good of all, Christian. Together we will rise from the darkness and take back what is rightfully ours.”

  The Monks of the Night, once the warders of evil and dwellers of darkness, had disappeared long ago into whatever depths they could find to hide in when their order fell into disgrace. There they huddled in dwindling numbers, bitter, twisted and spiteful.

  “The boy's with us,” Stetland said. “Now let us pass.” He put his hand to his waist and pushed back his cloak, touching the hilt of his sword, letting the monks see. “I don't wish to slay the holy.”

  The monk seemed to consider this for a moment. He then turned to the other hooded figures. They formed a circle, each of them bowing at the hip until their heads touched. They were using telepathy to talk to one another, Stetland knew.

  “They could cripple our minds,” Christian said, quietly. “They could kill us all.”

  The bald one straightened then and turned to face Stetland. “We sense the boy has an important part to play in your mission,” the monk said.

  “Then let us pass,” Stetland reiterated.

  The monk paused before stepping aside. Then, chillingly, he said: “Be careful in the woods, my friends.”

  “Come on,” Stetland said, kicking a heel into his horse.

  They continued towards the dim speck of light at the end of the tunnel with the thuds of their horses' hooves echoing off the walls. They didn't look back.

  CHAPTER 6

  The horse made hard work of the hill. By the time they reached the summit of Drewton Hills, and negotiated the seemingly endless littering of rocks, the falling snow had become a blizzard. Graff was feeling the cold; he had no doubt the girl was too. He pulled up the collar of his tunic and tucked his hands beneath his armpits.

  “If it snows much more,” he complained to the others, “we won't be able to spot the rocks beneath our wheels. If we hit a big one, the wain might split right in two.”

  “Baggsie me carrying the girl,” Powel said, wriggling his long fingers.

  Graff would rather carry the girl himself than trust the likes of Powel. As soon as my back is turned he’ll have his hands in her underclothes. That's not to say that Graff hadn't looked upon the girl in a similar way. Her body was no more aged than a girl in her mid-teens. Graff was forty-eight. Old, he thought. But a girl like that would make me feel young again. If he wanted to indulge, there would be plenty of time for such activities when they reached High Hunsley, he knew. He imagined a wizard created by his seed. I could rule all of Elt with such a child. But wizards take time to grow, he considered. No one would run in fear from a baby. Volk would have plenty of time to put my head on a spike during the long years the child would take to grow strong and mighty. However warm and snug the wizard bearer's lady pocket might be, the inevitable outcome was not worth the pleasure, he lamented.

  “You keep your hands to yourself,” Graff warned the crooked-nosed man. “Or I'll chop them off, along with your cock.” Powel's smile faded. Graff looked ahead and shouted to Giz: “Be careful of rocks.”

  “Don't worry,” Giz shouted over one shoulder, “my eyes are young, boss. I can see the outline of rocks under the snow. You have nothing to worry about.”

  I hope not, Graff thought, for your sake, son.

  By the time they reached High Hunsley, snow covered the ground like a thick rug. Just a few strands of grass poked through here and there, each drowning in a sea of white. The wind howled and the cold penetrated every layer of clothing Graff wore.

  The city walls were manned by archers, who pointed their arrows at the wain in a manner Graff found unsettling. Even as they approached the gate, at least three archers maintained their aim. I hope their fingers don't slip off those bows, Graff thought. He took another look at the archers and snarled at them. Seconds later, a hatch in the city gate opened revealing the hideous face of the gatekeeper Greybeard.

  “Who goes there?” Greybeard said. His voice was croaky and quivered like a bad singer trying to find the right key to a song. How old is this man? Graff thought. It wouldn't surprise me if he's seen one hundred.

  “Open up if you know what's good for you,” Graff shouted, with little jest. “My balls have disappeared up inside myself. I may as well be a girl.” There was a clink and then the two solid wooden doors swung inwards. Guards dressed in metal armour met them, their swords drawn. “No need for that. Leave us be, or I'll have you quartered.” The guards slunk back into the shadows, perhaps wondering what was worse: the wrath of their king or the wrath of Volk's little band of men. Graff would have advised them that the latter was by far the greater danger.

  The wain trundled through the narrow streets of High Hunsley. As darkness fell and snow continued to fall, most of the town folk were indoors. Many of the windows in the houses they passed were glowing with candle light. The few who braved the weather walked with their heads down and their collars pulled up high against the wind. A couple of boys were throwing snowballs at each other; their cries of joy ceased as the wain cut through their makeshift battlefield. Even the young realise how dangerous we are, Graff thought with a snigger.

  Up ahead, High Hunsley's great castle was silhouetted against the darkening sky, red flags on each of its four turrets ruffling in the brisk wind.

  Giz pulled the horse to a halt outside an inn. Graff kicked the point of his boot into the wizard bearer's side. Startled, she looked up. She was shivering, he noticed, and her face was as pale as flour. Graff nodded to the inn. “This is where you'll sleep tonight, missy. Haze, Powel, take her inside. I've got business to attend to.”

  As Haze stepped from the wain, his hand tight around the top of the wizard bearer's arm, Graff pulled him close. “Don't leave that pervert Powel alone with her,” Graff said. Haze nodded his understanding. “Let's go,” Graff shouted to Giz.

  Ancel was grinning, his yellowing teeth an unpleasant sight beneath his unkempt, pube-like beard.

  “What amuses you so?” Graff asked.

  “We're to intimidate the king, are we not?” Ancel said. His breath was just as offensive as the sight of his teeth.

  “A false king.” Someday I'll sit on that throne, Graff thought.

  They continued on through the streets, the snow piling high against the doors of the buildings they passed. When they reached the castle, they were met by more guards in armour. Red cloaks hung from their necks, flapping in the wind. Giz remained outside with the horse and wain, while Graff and Ancel were led into the heart of the castle to the Great Hall. King Merek was seated on his throne at the far side of the room, legs crossed at the knee, the fingers of one hand rubbing his chin in a thoughtful manner. He was a thin, gaunt man, but his eyes shone with intelligence. Graff liked that not.

  “The false king,” Graff declared theatrically while walking across the vast hall with his arms outstretched as if he wanted to embrace the king in an affectionate hug; he couldn't think of anything worse. “Long time and all that. How long has it been? Two, three years?”

  “Three years and two months,” King Merek said, flatly.

  “You've been counting?”

  “Yes. And never would be too soon.”

  Graff put both hands on his heart and said: “You hurt me, Merek.”

&
nbsp; “It's King Merek to you.”

  Graff was now at the foot of Merek's throne. He had to look up at the king; he didn't like that. Next to the king was the smaller queen's throne. Graff stepped onto the platform and seated himself in the queen's place. Two of the king's guards stepped forward with hands on the hilts of their swords. King Merek waved them away. Reluctantly, they skulked back into the shadows.

  “You're not my king, Merek. The only king I answer to is Volk. And he's no king, he's a god.”

  “Where should I sit, sir?” Ancel asked Graff

  “Where should you sit?” Graff was annoyed at the insolent question. “Perhaps I should give you a jester's hat so that you can entertain us, huh? After all, freaks are the best form of entertainment, are they not?” The dwarf half-breed bowed his head. “I suggest that you stand there and keep your mouth shut or I'm likely to spill your blood where you stand.” He returned his attention to the king. “Now, where was I?”

  “What do you want, Graff?” King Merek said.

  “We have a very important guest staying in High Hunsley tonight. To keep her safe, I require the gates to the city, both east and west entrances, to remain closed until I leave in the morn.”

  The King was silent, while drumming his fingers on the arm of his throne. Graff looked into the man's shrill blue eyes; they were as cold and stark as a winter morning's sky. He's scheming, thinking up a plan.

  Graff was about to speak again, determined to stay in control of the conversation, when the king said: “Who's this guest you speak of?”

  Graff leant towards the king. “You don't need to know that.”

  “Is she from Kingstown? Please tell me it's not Princess Everlyn.”

  Graff laughed at this. Someone far more special than King Bahlinger's only child.

  “I need you to agree to keep the gates closed or I'll take charge and make the command myself.” This was a bold threat, one which Graff doubted he had the sufficient manpower at his disposal to execute.

  “My guards would have your head on a spike for such treason,” King Merek said, yet his complexion looked pallid all of a sudden.

  “And if you tried that, the weight of Volk's army would descend on this place and tear it apart. You have a daughter, don't you?” Merek nodded. “How old is she? Twelve, thirteen?” She was called Lictina. The youngest of Merek’s three children. Pretty little thing. Like her mother.

  “That's none of your business.”

  “Volk's men have a penchant for young girls. Unless you want to witness her shared by half a hundred men at the foot of your throne, I suggest you cooperate with me.”

  King Merek looked away, clenching his fists. His pallid face had given way to the red of anger. “You'll be gone in the morn?” he said. Graff was unsure if this was a question or a command. He let it pass as the former.

  “Yes. Before you wake your sleepy little head.”

  “Until then, you get your wish.”

  “Good. A sensible man. What do you say, Ancel? Shall we go and enjoy the delights of High Hunsley? Perhaps sink a few ales and sample a few women?”

  “Sounds good, sir,” Ancel replied, scratching at the roots of his long beard.

  “This is a good city,” King Merek said. “We don't want trouble.”

  “The funny thing is,” Graff said, “trouble seems to find me wherever I go.” He pushed himself off the queen's throne. Then, turning back to the king, he said: “Remember, no one enters and no one leaves.”

  King Merek gave a subtle nod before speaking to one of the guards lurking in the shadows: “See that both gates remain closed, on instruction from the king. There are to be no exceptions.”

  The guard left the room, giving Graff a mean stare as he passed.

  “Although I'll be leaving early in the morn,” Graff said to the king, “I'm in no doubt our paths will cross again, and soon.”

  With that he left the castle. Outside, it was fully dark. Wind blew snow into his face. All he could think about was snuggling down in a warm bed with an even warmer woman. But he wanted to check on the wizard bearer first.

  Giz and the horse and wain where waiting in the street.

  “The horse is cold,” Giz said. The horse's once dark coat was now speckled with white. “As am I, boss.” He was visibly shaking.

  “Give me the satchel,” Graff said, “and then take the horse to the royal stables.” Giz lifted the satchel from the wain and handed it over. “Meet us back at the inn. We'll walk from here.”

  With Ancel by his side, Graff walked through the streets in the direction of the inn.

  “I have a job for you, Ancel,” Graff said.

  “But you said we'd sample the delights of—”

  “I say a lot of things, Ancel. You should know that by now. I'll be sampling the delights of High Hunsley alone.”

  “Well . . . what's this job?” Ancel held an arm in front of his face to shield against the onslaught of snow.

  “You'll see.”

  They continued on in silence, their concentration taken by the difficulty of walking through the deepening snow. Every step seemed an effort. They arrived at the inn to find it full of drinkers. Rotund men were sitting on stools at the bar drinking from tankards and laughing loudly. A buxom girl, with spots around her lips, was perched on a man's knee, her large breasts exposed; two men fondled them.

  “Time for a drink, sir?” Ancel said, brushing snow from his coat.

  “No chance,” Graff said. “I need you sober.”

  They continued through the bar to a set of stairs leading to the first floor landing. They found Haze and Powel guarding the door to the room that held the wizard bearer.

  “How is she?” Graff said.

  “As beautiful as ever,” Powel said, stretching his face into an ugly smile.

  “She refuses to eat,” Haze said. He looked like a tired father exhausted by his child's stubborn behaviour.

  “That's not our problem. In three days we'll be in Wyke. She won't die of starvation in that time.”

  “I could feed her something, sir,” Powel said, grabbing the contents of his trousers in his right hand.

  “And if you did, I'd cut it off and stuff it down your throat,”

  “He wouldn't choke on a small piece of meat like that,” Ancel said, chuckling.

  Haze laughed too, but Graff wasn't in the mood.

  “I need you two to guard this door all night.” Graff stabbed both Haze and Powel in their chests. “Don't go falling asleep. And don't even think about visiting one of the other rooms.” He hooked a finger over his shoulder to where a woman’s giggles could be heard from behind a closed door. “Giz will be back after he's stabled the horse. I'll be back by dawn.”

  “And what about me?” Ancel said. “What's this job you want me to do?”

  Graff opened the satchel and explained.

  CHAPTER 7

  The room was warm, at least. Cassandra Delamare found consolation in that. A fire roared in the hearth, crackling and spitting. It was a homely sound, but nothing would cure her sickness for home. How ironic, she thought. I once hated the city of Kingstown so much I longed to leave it far behind. But now I want it back. Oh, how I want it all back.

  She thought of how on this night, the eve of her wedding day, she should have maids and servants milling around her, bathing her skin and washing her hair. She never imagined this day would turn out like it had.

  She was startled from her thoughts by Haze entering the room.

  “Just feeding the fire, miss,” he said. “Keep you from freezing your . . . your feet off.”

  Powel was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, half concealed by darkness. She could feel his eyes raping her body. How she hated him. She feared being left alone with the man. Haze was at least courteous and had not once rested his eyes on her breasts.

  “Where's Graff and that little dwarf-like man?” Cassandra said.

  “Ancel? He'll be back later. Not sure we'll see Graff again
until the morn. That might please you, though.”

  “I wish you'd send him away.” Cassandra said quietly, nodding to the doorway.

  Haze smiled knowingly. “He won't harm you while I'm around, miss. I'm under express instruction from Graff to look after you.” He threw a log onto the fire where flames spread over it like hungry insects. “See, Graff does care about you.”

  “He wants me delivered safely and untouched so that he can receive his payment in coin, that's all. Isn't that the truth?”

  Haze looked away and stoked the fire. “You'd do well to keep your mouth shut when the others are around. Graff has a temper. He could do things to you that wouldn't leave a mark on your body; things you wouldn't like.”

  Cassandra didn't want to think about what those things might be. She noticed the sword at Haze's side. It was a good sword, large and heavy looking, with a leather hilt. Not at all like the dirty blades the other men carried.

  “Were you once a knight?” she said.

  Haze was silent for a moment as he continued to attend to the fire. Then, without turning, he said: “A long time ago. In another life.”

  “What turned you?” She noticed the blue 'V' on the underside of his left forearm, marking his allegiance to Volk.

  He turned to her then, animated. “Your king is corrupt, just like all those that came before him. I could no longer pledge my honour to such a man.”

  “And you think Volk is any better? You think Volk has morals?” Haze looked away again. “You're nothing more than a sell sword. Were you short of money, is that it? What was it, gambling debts?”

  “You know nothing, miss. As I said, you should keep that mouth of yours shut.” Haze stood. “Eat your food. Drink your water. There'll be no meals once we're back on the road. And it's cold out there.”

  “It is hard to eat with my hands chained together.” She held her wrists up as if to show him what he already knew.

  “I can't take them off you.”