Battleaxe (3 page)

“Wait, Moryson,” Jayme counselled. “Wait until we have heard all of what Gilbert has to say.” All three men had forgotten the tension and anger that Gilbert’s jibe had caused moments before.

“Magariz’s soldiers have seen similar apparitions, although most who have been close enough to see them have died,” Gilbert said slowly. “One man they found alive. Just. He died a few minutes after Magariz arrived. He said, and this report was Lord Magariz’s own, that he had been attacked by creatures which had no form and which had suffered no wounds at the edge of his sword.”

“And how did they wound this soldier? I thought the Gorkenfort garrison were among the best armoured soldiers in the realm.”

“Brother-Leader, Magariz understood from the soldier’s last words that the creatures surrounded him—then simply oozed through the gaps in his armour until they lay between it and his skin. Then they began to eat.”

Gilbert stopped for a moment, and all three men contemplated such a horrific death. Jayme closed his eyes; may Artor hold him and keep him in His care, he prayed silently.

“I wonder why they left him alive?” Moryson wondered softly.

Gilbert’s voice was caustic when he replied. “They had already consumed the rest of his patrol. One assumes they were reasonably full.”

Jayme abruptly pushed himself up from his chair and moved over to a wall cabinet. “I think Artor would forgive us if we imbibed a little wine this early in the afternoon, Brothers. Considering we still have the reports from Smyrton to review, I think we might need it.”

He poured out three glass goblets of deep red wine and handed them out before reseating himself behind his desk.

“Furrow wide, furrow deep,” he intoned.

“Furrow wide, furrow deep,” Moryson and Gilbert answered together, repeating the ritual phrases that served all Artor-fearing Acharites as blessings and greetings for most occasions in life.

Both ritual and wine comforted the men, and soon they were ready to resume their considerations.

“And what else from the north, Gilbert?” Jayme asked, holding his glass between both palms to warm the remaining wine and hoping the wine he had already consumed would beat back the chill gnawing at his soul.

“Well, the winter was particularly severe. Even here we suffered from extreme cold during Raven-month and Hungry-month, while the thaw came in Flower-month, a month later than usual. In the north the cold was even more extreme, and I believe the winter snow and ice persisted in places above the Urqhart Hills throughout the summer.” Even northern Ichtar usually thawed completely for the summer.

Jayme raised his eyebrows. Gilbert’s intelligence was good indeed. Did he have sources that Jayme did not know about? No matter, what was important was that much of northern Ichtar had spent the summer encased in ice when usually the ice and snow disappeared by Thaw-month.

“If the ice persisted above the Urqhart Hills, then Gorkentown must also have remained in conditions close to winter,” Jayme pondered. “Tell me, Gilbert, did the attacks continue through the warmer months?”

Gilbert shook his head and took another sip of wine. “No. The creatures appeared only during the most severe weather in the depths of winter. Perhaps they have gone again.”

“And perhaps they have not. If the extreme north remained encased in ice during summer then I dread the winter ahead. And if they depend on extreme weather conditions, then does that mean they will be back?”

“We should also consider the reports of our brothers in the Retreat at Gorkentown, Brother-Leader.” The Brotherhood of the Seneschal had a small retreat in Gorkentown for those brothers who preferred a more ascetic life, spent in contemplation of Artor, to the comfortable life of the Tower of the Seneschal.

“Yes, Gilbert. Perhaps we should.”

“Our brothers believe that the Forbidden might be behind this.”

“And their reasons for thinking so, Gilbert?”

“The reports and experiences of the garrison for one, Brother-Leader. But also several of the brothers have reported that demons inhabit their dreams on those nights when the wind is fiercest.”

Jayme chuckled softly. “Not reliable. You give me bad dreams most nights, Gilbert, and I am not yet ready to class you as one of the Forbidden.”

All three men smiled, Gilbert more stiffly than the other two. Moryson spoke gently, turning the younger brother’s mind from Jayme’s heavy-handed attempt at humour. “Have they reported
seeing
anything, Gilbert?”

“Neither Gorkenfort nor Gorkentown has been attacked; only small patrols or individuals outside the walls. No, the brothers have actually
seen
little. But they have observed the mood of the town and garrison, and they say that dark thoughts and moods lay heavily across the inhabitants. Extra prayers are offered to Artor every day, but the fear grows.”

“If only there was someone alive who actually knew anything about the Forbidden!” Jayme was angry at his inability to understand the nature of the threat in northern Ichtar. He stood up from his chair again and paced restlessly across the chamber.

“Gilbert. Forget the mutterings of the brothers in Gorkentown for the moment. What news out of Smyrton?”

“Unusual happenings there, too, but not the same as in northern Ichtar.”

Smyrton was a largish village at the extreme edge of the Seagrass Plains, the main grain-producing area of Achar. It was the closest settled area to the Forbidden Valley. If the Forbidden ever came
swarming over Achar again, then the valley was the obvious place they would emerge, a natural conduit out of the Shadowsward, the darkest and most evil place bordering Achar. One day, thought Jayme, we’ll take the axe to the Shadowsward as well.

“The local Plough-Keeper, Brother Hagen, has sent reports of strange creatures sighted near the Forbidden Valley and, more disturbing, near the village itself. There have been about five sightings over the past several months.”

“Are they…?” Moryson began, but Gilbert shook his head.

“Nothing like the strange creatures of ice and snow that the soldiers of Gorkenfort report, Brother Moryson. Yet in their own way, they are just as strange. Man-like—but somehow alien.”

“In what way?” asked Jayme testily.

Gilbert had to swivel a little in his chair to follow the figure of his Brother-Leader as he paced the floor from window to fireplace and back again. “They are short and muscular, and very dark, making them extremely hard to see at night. They evade the villagers rather than seek them out. Each time one is spotted it has been carrying a child with it, and Brother Hagen reports that although no children from the village are missing, the villagers bolt their doors and windows fast at dusk. Perhaps they have stolen the children from somewhere else.”

“You said, ‘somehow alien’.” Jayme stopped before Gilbert’s chair and folded his arms in frustration. “What do you mean by that?”

Gilbert shrugged. “I only relate what Brother Hagen relates, Brother-Leader. He was not specific on that point.”

Jayme sighed and patted Gilbert on the shoulder. “I cannot but think the Forbidden are moving again.”

Spoken words about the Forbidden were enough to make all three men shiver with foreboding. Every Acharite living knew that a thousand years previously, during the Wars of the Axe, their forebears had driven the frightful races that had once dominated Achar with their evil sorcery back across the Fortress Ranges into the Shadowsward and the Icescarp Alps. Then, with the help of the Axe-Wielders, the Acharites had cut down the massive forests that had once
harboured the Forbidden races, putting the cleared land under Plough and civilisation. It was part of Acharite legend that one day the Forbidden would seethe back across the Fortress Ranges and slither down from the Icescarp Alps to try to reclaim the land that had once been theirs. Every parent scared their children with the threat.

Jayme walked slowly over to the fire, his shoulders stooped. He raised his cold hands to the flames until he noticed with horror that they were trembling, and quickly bunched them into fists and hid them in the folds of his gown. Though nothing as yet connected the two sets of reports from Gorkenfort and Smyrton, Jayme was scared they were connected. The responsibility of his position weighed heavily on him.

Moryson and Gilbert watched silently, both aware of the seriousness of these reports, both glad they were not the ones who had to make the decisions. Moryson scratched his chin reflectively. He knew dark events were upon them.

Slowly Jayme turned back to his assistants. “Tomorrow Carlon celebrates King Priam’s nameday. The celebrations will end with a banquet in the royal palace to which Priam has extended me an invitation. He has also advised me that we will need to meet privately to discuss the problem at Gorkentown. Neither Priam nor the Seneschal can meet this threat alone. Achar will have to stand united as it never has before if we can hope to survive the threat of the Forbidden. Artor help us, now and forever.”

“Now and forever,” the other two echoed, draining the dregs of their wine.

K
ing Priam’s nameday was an occasion of great celebration throughout Achar, but nowhere more than in the city of Carlon where a general holiday was proclaimed. In the morning Priam presided over a parade through the winding streets of the ancient city, sitting under a heavily embroidered canopy that usually kept sun from his regal brow. Today it kept an unseasonable drizzle from his closely curled head. Despite the unsettling rumours from the north, the townsfolk lined the streets for the parade—an affair put on by the various guilds of Carlon to honour their king. Priam waved cheerfully enough throughout the extended parade, although he was bored witless by the time the fifty-seventh flower-draped cart passed him by. He made a good-humoured speech at its conclusion, thanking the guilds for their efforts on his behalf, and saying some graceful words about the large number of enthusiastic (but largely talentless) children of guild members who had performed throughout the parade. The crowd cheered their king warmly, Priam beamed and waved some more, and then everyone hurried home, remarking on the cold weather and wondering whether it would affect the evening’s festivities.

Priam’s nameday was the one day of the year when he extended
his royal largesse to all the citizens of Carlon, providing them with a free feast (although if they wanted to sit down they had to bring their own stools). With the tens of thousands of mouths that had to be fed, the public banquet involved many months of careful planning and preparation. As much as anything, the banquet was an opportunity for the lords of the various provinces of Achar to demonstrate their loyalty towards their liege. Earl Burdel of Arcness bred and transported five hundred substantial porkers, the gigantic Duke Roland the Walker (too fat to ride) of Aldeni supplied two hundred and thirty-five carts of vegetables and fruit, Baron Fulke of Romsdale supplied enough ale to keep the Carlonites off work for three days after the banquet, and two hundred and twenty barrels of his best red. Baron Ysgryff of Nor, understanding that the citizens of Carlon would need to have something to entertain them once they had drunk and eaten to sufficiency, donated the services of one hundred and eighty-five of the best whores and dancing boys from the streets of Ysbadd. All the lords contributed what they could, eager to impress the king, but the most generous of all was Borneheld, Duke of Ichtar, who donated an entire herd of his finest mutton and beef, and distributed amongst the guilds a fistful of diamonds and emeralds from his mines in the Urqhart Hills. Of course, muttered the assembled lords around goblets full of Baron Fulke’s finest, Borneheld could afford to be the most generous since he controlled more territory than any four of them put together.

By nine in the evening the citizens of Carlon were happily gorging themselves at the various venues—the town hall, the market square, and seven of the massive guild halls. The whores and the dancing boys were starting to ply their business outside the eating halls. Well away from the street parties, a less rowdy and more decorous banquet was underway in Priam’s cream and gold palace in the heart of Carlon.

The banquet hall of the palace, popularly known as the Chamber of the Moons, was a massive circular affair that doubled as an audience chamber on ordinary days of the week. Great alabaster columns supported a soaring domed roof, enamelled in a gorgeous deep blue
with gold and silver representations of the moon in the various phases of its monthly cycle floating amid myriad begemmed stars (thus the popular sobriquet). The floor was equally spectacular—deep emerald-green marble shot through with veins of gold.

Tonight the floor was hardly visible beneath the dozens of tables crammed into the chamber, and (as yet) no-one was drunk enough to be lying in such a position as to stare straight towards the magnificent domed roof. On the side of the chamber, directly opposite the entrance, was the slightly raised dais, where Priam normally sat to receive whoever had come calling, but which tonight supported the royal table. Priam was there with his immediate family (of whom not many were left), and the most important nobles of the realm with their wives. Jayme, Brother-Leader of the Seneschal, enjoyed a spot not far from the centre of the table and was, despite the grim news from the north, determined to enjoy the banquet until he could discuss developments more privately with Priam.

Immediately below the royal party was a large table seating the sons and daughters of the highest nobles. From there the tables spread across the floor of the Chamber of the Moons with the least important guests cramped around rickety tables in the dim recesses behind the grand circle of columns.

Faraday, eighteen-year-old daughter of Earl Isend of Skarabost, sat soaking up the atmosphere with her intelligent green eyes. As she had only turned eighteen a half-year previously, this was the first time she had been invited to one of the grand royal banquets; indeed, this was the first time she had even been to Carlon. Although Faraday had not been raised in court, she was far from being out of her social and cultural depth. Her mother, Merlion, had spent years training her in the rituals and etiquette of court society, while the girl’s own natural wit and composure gave her the skills to hold her own in most courtly company. Pleasant conversation notwithstanding, Faraday’s green eyes, chestnut hair and fine bone structure held the promise of such great beauty that she had already caught the speculative eye of a number of young nobles seeking well-bred and wealthy wives.

Beside her sat her new friend, Devera, twenty-year-old daughter of Duke Roland the Walker. Devera had a blue-eyed, fair-haired prettiness that Faraday thought extraordinarily appealing.

Faraday leaned close to Devera, hoping that the intricate knot of her heavy hair, held together with only small pins of pearls and diamonds, would not tumble down. “Everyone looks so beautiful, Devera,” she whispered, unable to completely hide her excitement. Her eyes slipped to the goblet of watered wine she held. Its golden cup was encrusted with small diamond chips. Noble she might have been, but Faraday was still young enough to be impressed by the extreme wealth and ostentation of Priam’s court.

Devera smiled at Faraday. She remembered how she had felt when she first came to court two years ago, but she was not going to let Faraday know that. “You should try and look more bored, Faraday. If people suspect you are in awe of them they will seek to take advantage of you.”

Faraday looked up from the goblet, her green eyes serious now. “Oh, Devera, surely you have read Artor’s words in the Book of Field and Furrow? Taking advantage of people is not the Artor-fearing way.” Besides teaching Faraday the courtly graces, Merlion had also made sure her daughter received strict religious instruction.

Devera suppressed a small grimace. Faraday sounded a little too devout for her liking. Everyone at court genuinely feared the wrath of Artor, and most respected the Brother-Leader, but they generally only paid lip service to the Seneschal. Devotion to the Seneschal’s Way of the Plough was a trifle too peasantish for most court nobility—indeed, most Carlonites. Besides, many nobles resented the interference of the Seneschal in the political affairs of Achar. Faraday would have to drop the expressions of devoutness if she was to hold the interest of one of the better-looking courtiers. Devera assumed Earl Isend had brought Faraday to court and decked her out in such an exquisite dark-gold silk dress and fine pearls in order to find her a husband. Devera herself was betrothed to one of the younger sons of Baron Fulke and would be wedded within the month. She looked forward to the event with lustful impatience.

Well, if Faraday was devout, then perhaps her father could arrange an audience with the Brother-Leader for her. Devera indicated the white-haired and stooped old man one place down from the king’s left hand. “Have you met the Brother-Leader yet, Faraday?”

Faraday turned her gaze back towards the royal table and the leader of the Seneschal. He looked as noble as any other at the table with his well-groomed (and non-tonsured) hair, his gently waved and perfumed beard and rich clothes. He wore a massive emerald ring on his left hand, and wielded his napkin with as much grace as the king himself. He had a kindly, intelligent face, though he seemed preoccupied with some grave concern.

“No.” Faraday hesitated a moment. “Does he come from the royal family itself, Devera?”

Devera snorted behind her gravy-stained napkin. “Not he, Faraday. No, Brother-Leader Jayme comes from an undistinguished farming family somewhere in the depths of Arcness. Knowing that province, he probably has more than a passing knowledge of pigs, although he hides it well now. He was appointed chaplain to the royal household a few decades ago—that’s where he learned his manners. Jayme was…is…an ambitious man, and he learnt well at court. Well enough, I suppose, to be appointed Brother-Leader.”

Faraday was dismayed at the sacrilegious way Devera talked about the Brother-Leader. “Devera, you must not speak ill of the Brother-Leader. The Brotherhood of the Seneschal elects the Brother-Leader—the royal household has no influence at all.”

Artor! but the girl had a lot to learn about the intrigues of both court and Seneschal, Devera thought dryly, and decided to steer the conversation away from religious matters. “What do you think of King Priam, Faraday?”

Faraday smiled and her face looked truly beautiful. “He’s handsome, Devera.” Her eyes twinkled impishly. “But such curls!”

Devera laughed despite herself. Priam had inherited the regal good looks of his family as well as their magnificent dark auburn hair, but it really was a trifle ridiculous for a man in his late forties to continue to have his hair curled so tightly.

“That must be his wife, Queen Judith.” Faraday indicated a woman of ethereal and fragile beauty sitting between Priam and the Brother-Leader. As they watched, Priam leaned over attentively and gave her the choicest meats from his own plate.

“Yes. It’s so sad. They say that Priam loves her dearly, but that she cannot have children. Every year of their marriage but the past two she has fallen pregnant, only to lose the babe in the fourth or fifth month. Now, perhaps, she is too old.”

Both girls fell silent for a few minutes as they contemplated this supreme tragedy. The primary purpose of any noblewoman was to bear her husband sons as quickly as possible. No matter the dowry, the connections or the beauty that a woman brought to her marriage bed, her life became meaningless if she could not produce heirs. Faraday picked up a piece of cloudberry cheese and nibbled delicately at its edges, a line of worry appearing between her eyes. “It would be a tragedy if King Priam does not have any sons to follow him.”

“Ah,” Devera took a healthy sip of wine, “that would leave the way open for his closest living relative. Now tell me, if you can, do you know who that is?”

Her tone irritated Faraday. “His nephew, Duke Borneheld of Ichtar,” she retorted.

Faraday had arrived at court only the day before and had yet to be introduced to the King and his family. If she knew names, faces as yet meant little to her. To her humiliation, Faraday could not place Borneheld’s face among the three or four noblemen at the royal table she still could not identify.
Which
one was he?

Devera savoured Faraday’s embarrassed confusion for a moment, then inclined her head towards the man sitting immediately at Priam’s right hand.

“Ah,” Faraday breathed, for now that Devera had pointed him out she could see some resemblance. Borneheld had Priam’s grey eyes and his hair was precisely the same shade of auburn, although dressed in a soldier’s close crop rather than Priam’s court curls. He was a man in the prime of his life, about thirty, and as solid as he might be, it was clear that his bulk was all muscle. If Priam was a courtier, then it
was obvious that Borneheld was a warrior, his body honed by years in the saddle and wielding the sword. He looked a formidable man. Her mother had been remarkably silent on Priam’s immediate family.

“Borneheld is the child of Priam’s only sister, Rivkah, who married Borneheld’s father Searlas, the previous Duke,” Devera explained.

Faraday paused in her contemplation of Borneheld to glance back at Devera. For a moment she thought that there was some hesitation, or some darker shadow, behind Devera’s words, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. “So, if Priam has no children, Borneheld will become king.”

Devera shrugged and took another sip of wine. “Probably, unless the other Earls and Barons decided to fight him for the privilege.”

“But that would mean civil war! Are you suggesting that our fathers would be so disloyal?” Faraday valued loyalty above most other virtues.

“Well, the prize would be worth it, wouldn’t it,” Devera snapped, the wine she had drunk making her tongue dangerously loose.

Faraday turned her head away and concentrated on the food before her. Perhaps it were best if she let Devera chat to the youth on her right for a time.

Some twenty silent minutes later, Faraday became aware of a man moving quietly through the shadows behind the great columns, then weaving sinuously between the crowded tables and the darting, anxious serving men and women. Occasionally he bent to speak to a person or two seated at the tables.

She watched him, fascinated by his unusual grace and the suppleness of his movement. He was moving towards the dais where the royal table stood, and she wondered if he were one of the nobles. Faraday was enthralled.

Finally he stepped into the main body of the chamber and Faraday had her first clear look at him; she took a quick, sharp breath of surprise. Not even Priam commanded the same presence that this man did.

He was still a relatively young man, perhaps some ten or eleven years older than herself, striking rather than handsome. This was due partly to his lithe grace, but also to the unusual alien cast of his features. His shoulder-length hair, drawn back into a short tail in the nape of his neck, and his close-shaven beard were the colour of sun-faded harvest wheat, his eyes an equally faded blue—but as penetrating as a bird of prey’s. He was tall and lean, and wore a uniform unlike any that Faraday had seen before, either in her home of Skarabost or here in Carlon. Over slim-fitting black leather trousers and riding boots, he wore a black, close-fitting hip-length tunic coat of cleverly woven wool. Even the trimmings and the raised embroideries down the sleeves of his tunic were black. The only relief was a pair of crossed golden axes embroidered across his left breast. As he stepped into the brilliance of the central chamber the entire effect was as if a panther had suddenly strolled out of a dark jungle into the sunlight of a glade.